


The Vampires of London

by consultingdetective



Category: Dracula - Bram Stoker, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Army Doctor John Watson, M/M, Pining Sherlock, Plot Twists, Porn with Feelings, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2017-11-04 06:01:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 72,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/390579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consultingdetective/pseuds/consultingdetective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Over one hundred years after the first battle, a series of murders have caught the attention of London's police force and Sherlock Holmes. While most of the city has forgotten the vampire that once walked its streets, the descendants of the Van Helsing, Harker, and Seward families have not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Includes ideas/rules from both Bram Stoker's Dracula and True Blood. Set after THoB.

“ _Have you felt the Vampire's lips upon your throat?”_

 

   John Watson had a headache. He was beginning to feel as though he always had some kind of throbbing in his head, though he was usually better at tuning it out. As he read through the stack of documents on the table before him, he quietly chastised himself for being surprised that his flatmate was trying to drive him insane, given that it was becoming a regular occurrence. Sherlock, without a case for a week, had begun what was quickly becoming known to John and Mrs. Hudson as the first phase of boredom: senseless vandalism. Sherlock, of course, would argue that there was some sense to it, but he would also occasionally state that he did not know how to use the vacuum, and for that reason alone was not considered a paragon of sensibility by his housemates.

  His destruction of choice that night was darts, which he directed towards a series of decorative milk bottles Mrs. Hudson had placed on the counter behind the sink. As she had put them there John knew they would wind up becoming victims of Sherlock's target practice, but didn't have the heart to inform his landlady that her homemaking would not be appreciated.

“You're an awful shot,” John said, glancing at the third jar to break, and wondering what kind of flowers he should buy Mrs. Hudson this time around as an apology.

“I'm not trying to be a good one,” Sherlock replied, looking at John as he threw another dart at the wall, as though to make a point.

During their last case, the pair had spent the day chasing after a criminal who had stolen paintings from one of the city's museums. It wasn't Sherlock's usual kind of project, but the detective inspector was unusually desperate, and the consulting detective had taken pity on him. He had, of course, made sure that the pictures they were looking for weren't forgeries – after the last incident with stolen artwork, the fake Vermeer, John had decided that both of them had suffered enough for the sake of London's art community. What was supposed to be a simple deduction about the whereabouts of the paintings had stretched into a day long journey, requiring John and Sherlock to run back and forth across London, getting caught in rainstorms every so often, trying to catch the surprisingly fast thief. It was an absolute miracle that neither of them had slipped and broken a bone or caught a cold; John imagined that only death would have kept Sherlock from finishing the case, though even that wasn't certain. Twelve hours later, tired and wet, they had returned home, a bit worse for wear, and in need of some tea. Unfortunately, because he hadn't been particularly interested by the case, Sherlock's period of satisfaction following its completion was very brief.

John glanced over the papers, frowning as he turned the page, and wishing the robberies had been challenging enough to afford him another week of peace. Sherlock continued to throw darts.

“Blood loss victims,” John muttered, skipping over a few pages of police reports. 

“Yes, very observant,” the man beside him drawled. 

“Maybe you should take a look at these,” the doctor said, turning around to face his friend. “Could be interesting.” He ignored the unamused look that was levelled at him before he had even finished speaking. “Just... for me, all right? And I'm sure Molly'd appreciate it, after what you did with her toes.”

Sherlock sighed. “They weren't _her_ toes. They were just under her care.”

“Yes, and at one point attached to a human body, which was also under her care,” John said, pointing out what he hoped was obvious, “So you owe her.”

Grumbling and rolling his eyes – the closest John had seen his flatmate get to admitting defeat – snatched the papers back and began laying them out on the workbench beside his microscope. Satisfied, John stood, and took his tea into the sitting room, leaving Sherlock to his deductions.

After some time, and a brief, very welcome period of silence, John heard Sherlock's voice calling from the kitchen. “How much blood can be lost by a human being before they lose consciousness? Simply to confirm.”

“About thirty, thirty-five percent total? Depends on the person, really,” John replied, glancing over his shoulder at Sherlock. Though he was tempted, he did not tack on a 'why' to the end of his sentence; questioning Sherlock mid-thought never ended well. He had learned not to interrupt the process.

“And death? Forty percent, correct?”

“As far as I know,” John replied. “The rate of losing it matters, of course.”

Apparently finished asking questions, John didn't hear another word from Sherlock for the next half hour, and returned to the kitchen to drop off his mug in the sink.

“Call Lestrade in the morning, tell him I'll take the case,” Sherlock said, head bowed as he stared at a set of slides in front of his microscope. John, just grateful that his flatmate had taken an interest in the victims, didn't protest the order.

“You're not going to ask why?”

“Do I need to know why?”

“You usually ask,”Sherlock replied. John stared at him for a moment before sighing.

“Fine. Why?”

The corner of Sherlock's mouth turned up slightly. “There are no marks on the victims.”

“Right.”

“Each individual lost over sixty percent of their blood,” Sherlock added, waiting for John to catch up. After a few seconds, he did.

“Without a mark on their bodies. All right, that could be a problem.”

“Could be more fun than a locked room murder,” Sherlock corrected.

John's expression was unreadable. Sherlock didn't like that – he preferred John to be expressive, even if that meant asking stupid questions, or becoming cross about Sherlock's lack of emotions towards victims. When John was silent, he felt almost out of his depth, and pitifully human. Almost.

John, looking directly at his friend at that moment, was imagining Sherlock without more than half of his blood. Would he be any paler then, more than he was now, bathed under the fluorescent light of the kitchen? He shook his head, clearing away the image. He had obviously spent too much time staring at crime scene photographs. 

“That's enough talking about how fun murder is for one night, yeah?” John said, pushing himself away from the kitchen counter. 

Sherlock surveyed him and nodded. “Fine.” He placed the photographs he had moved back onto the pile, and moved back to his microscope. “Sleep well.” 

“Same to you. Try to actually sleep at some point,” John ordered, pointing at him as he left the room, and shutting off the lights in the main room as he headed towards the stairs.

He ignored what he was almost positive was Sherlock giving a snort and muttering, “yes, mother.”

That night John tossed and turned, the sounds of the city almost unbearable, with every siren a distressed wail. When he did eventually fall asleep, he found himself running from the black and red stained images in his mind, sure of nothing but the presence of blood.


	2. Chapter 2

_“Oh, friend John, it is a strange world, a sad world, a world full of miseries, and woes, and troubles.”_

The morning that followed Sherlock agreeing to take the case was fairly standard, as far as days with Sherlock went. John, unsure how long his day was going to be, cleared off the glass covered countertop, and forced a cup of tea and a piece of toast into his flatmate's hand. Sherlock, who had woken a few hours before him, had resumed jotting down notes about the crime scenes and possible connections between the victims, and was almost finished the process of transcribing his notes into his phone.  


“It would be easier to do this with both hands,” he said, focused on his notes.  


“Eat your toast, then you'll have both,” John ordered in his best captain's voice, sipping on his own cup of coffee.  


Without so much as glancing up, Sherlock a bite from the corner. “It's terrible.”He looked directly at John and held it up, as though displaying evidence.  


John, wakeful enough to argue, plucked it from his hands and took a bite from the opposite corner. Chewing it thoughtfully, he turned towards the table and put the toast beside Sherlock's tea cup.“The toast is fine. Maybe you'd be in a better mood if you'd slept more than two hours.”  


“I very much doubt that,” he replied. “Call Lestrade.”  


As John reached for Sherlock's phone, his own mobile rang and vibrated in his shirt pocket. A bit startled, he pulled it out, noted the caller ID, and clicked answer.  


“Hey Greg, I was just about to call you.”  


“I hope you were going to call about taking a look at these bodies, because things have just gotten worse.”  
John paused. “Another murder?”  


“Yeah, this time a young woman. Didn't find her until this morning, either, so we aren't sure yet when she was killed,” Lestrade said, and John could hear the weariness in his voice.  


“Sherlock and I can be at the morgue in about twenty minutes, we were just getting ready to go,” John said, and nodded at Sherlock, who was pulling on his gloves.  


“Don't bother,” Lestrade replied. “Just meet me down at the water. You may as well get him to take a look at the crime scene itself before you see the other bodies. This time the body was near the Thames, around where you found the security guard last year. You should be able to spot the team on the beach, if you look far enough along it.”  


“Right, sounds good,” John said, though the prospect of another wet and bloody corpse was about as far from 'good' as he could imagine. At least Sherlock would be excited, which would terrify Donovan and make his morning a bit more humorous.  


“Anderson, he won't be there, will he?” Sherlock interrupted, having overheard John and Lestrade's conversation, and speaking loud enough that the man on the other line heard him.  


“Tell the consulting ten-year-old that, yes, Anderson will be there,” Lestrade said firmly, and John hoped Sherlock heard his tone of voice. “And I would very much appreciate if he didn't push him into the river.”  


“That was once,” Sherlock said, leaning on the table with both hands and looking at the phone.  


“That was twice,” John corrected.  


“And it doesn't matter,” Lestrade added. “Stop knocking my employees into bodies of water.”  


John shrugged at Sherlock, in part a conciliatory gesture, and to some degree to agree with the detective inspector. “He knows. We'll be there soon.” With a click, John hung up and slid the phone back into his pocket.  


“Must have been kicked out by his wife again, no other reason for him to take the morning shift,” he muttered, and pulled on his other glove with a jerk.  


Absently, rearranging some of the photos that were still on the table, John said, “he never said that I couldn't push anyone in the river.”  


Sherlock smirked. “I knew there was a reason I kept you around.” Tossing John's coat to him, he headed down the stairs and to the street, followed closely behind by his blogger.  


Within half an hour, the pair had claimed the nearest taxi and found themselves dropped off on the road next to a cracked sidewalk leading to the beach. In the distance, they could see the dull yellow line of police tape waving in the early morning light, and a crowd of officers standing off to the side, some taking notes and others sipping their coffee. When they came close to the crime scene, they were greeted by Lestrade, who looked more exhausted than usual as he waved them forward.  


John assumed that the lines on his face, and the unmistakeable look of someone whose mind was focused on other things, could be credited less to the two – now three – dead bodies on his hands, and more to his impending divorce. Though the pale band of skin on his ring finger was less noticeable as his tan faded, the meaning behind it was not. The doctor could only hope that Sherlock didn't feel the need to point this out.  


Granting his wish, Sherlock nodded to the inspector and ducked under the tape, immediately making his way towards the centre of the crime scene, where markers and flags had already been set up around an opaque, plastic sheet under the victim's body.  


“Sarah Daniels, twenty-five,” Lestrade said, looking down at the tarp, which Sherlock was currently circling around, analyzing the surrounding area and making his initial observations. “She worked as a secretary at the Bank of England, and her flatmate reported her missing when she didn't come home after work last night.”  


“Who found her?” John asked, watching Sherlock as he held a magnifying lens up to what appeared to be a rust-coloured stain on the sand.  


“A jogger who came by around five thirty this morning, just when the sun was coming up. Good timing on his part, for us, at least. No one had touched the crime scene yet, as far as anyone can tell. We've been able to keep photographers and the public away, too, but god knows how long that will last.” Letting out a breath of air he had been holding back, he crossed his arms and nodded towards the covered body. “You're probably going to want to take a look at that.”  


John moved to stand near Sherlock, who took the other end of the plastic and moved it to the side with him. The stained sand Sherlock had been examining earlier had given only a hint of the massacre that lay on the beach now. Even Lestrade grimaced and looked away, walking to the side of the body opposite Sherlock. “Any thoughts?”  


Kneeling down and tilting his head, Sherlock looked closer, gingerly resting on his fingertips as he leaned in towards the body. The woman, who lay with her arms to either side of her body and her legs slightly curved and facing the same direction, looked unlike the still, almost peaceful corpses pictured in the previous crime scene photographs. The most notable difference was the presence of a physical wound – the lack of one having been the very thing that attracted Sherlock to the case in the first place – which took the form of a deep, wide gash running from under the right side of her jaw, down to the base of her neck. Ragged at the edges but remarkably pale, the wound issued lines of dried blood, which crisscrossed down her torn blouse like a spiderweb. Her mouth, slightly open, seemed just moments away from freeing a scream, and her eyes were unnaturally wide. The entire scene appeared to be infinitely more disturbing than the prior two, and John understood Lestrade's unease.  


“You're sure this is the same person doing this?” John asked, finally prying his eyes from the woman.  


“Drained of blood, killed at night, it's got to be the same person,” Lestrade said, nodding, still looking at the corpse, which Sherlock was continuing to examine. “It looks like an animal wound, though, that's what most of the officers taking pictures thought – but what kind of animal has that kind of bite? It has to be human behind it. Now it's a matter of figuring out what weapon they used.” Lestrade shook his head. “This was supposed to be more straightforward.”  


“How so?”  


“Two unexplainable murders? That's the kind of thing everyone on the team is fine letting Sherlock sort out, however much they complain. Something like this, though? This is violent and bloody. If this gets out in the media, every paper is going to go insane.”  


“John, thoughts,” Sherlock called from beside the corpse. John walked over and knelt beside him, trying his best not to touch any of the dried blood. Sherlock pointed at the woman's neck with one of his long, gloved fingers. “The wound was made with a single sharp point, dragged down from here,” he pointed from the top to the centre of the neck, “to here.” He finished at the hollow where the throat met the collarbone. When he was this close, John could see that there were two distinct lines where the victim's neck had been cut. His brow furrowed as he leaned in closer.  


“A single point?”  


Sherlock nodded and pointed at the top of the wound. “Note how it gradually becomes deeper and wider from the initial place of contact and tapers towards the bottom. It appears to be consistent with a solitary blade of some sort, but I'll need to conduct further research when we return to Baker Street. We'll need to stop at the morgue,” he said softly, tilting the corpse's face away from him as he moved over a few steps. “It's very likely that the person behind this was much taller than Ms. Daniels, considering the angle that she was pierced at. A male, I presume, one who was strong enough to restrain her.” He gestured at her wrists. “Do you have anything to add?”  


John leaned forward, breathing softly, his eyes barely moving from the throat. Sherlock's voice was distant in his ears, and he could hear the gentle thrum of blood in his head. Pausing, he looked farther down the body, and reached out for the shoulder. He ran a hand over the cold flesh, pressing down with his index finger as he did. “Dislocated,” he said quietly.  


“John?”  


He returned to the present and looked up at Sherlock, who was looking at him intently. “Sorry, lost track of things a bit. Her shoulder's dislocated.”  


Sherlock looked at him a moment more and then stood, followed soon after by John. “Lestrade, have an autopsy performed as soon as possible. I'm sure you have already realized that this case will take priority over all others you have on at the moment.”  


“Yeah, I'm beginning to get that impression.”  


“Have your team email me any photographs I do not already have,” Sherlock demanded, and with a quick turn on his heel, he swept out of the crime scene, stalking along the rocky beach.  


John jogged to catch up. “Now what?”  


“Now,” Sherlock replied, turning up his coat collar and looking at his companion, “we have some experiments to do.”


	3. Chapter 3

_“There are such beings as vampires, some of us have evidence that they exist.”_

 

_A heartbeat. Footsteps pounding along the pavement and a scream as she tripped on the cold concrete, taking the force of the fall with her outstretched hands, landing on the shards of a broken bottle. Crimson beads of blood forming at the cuts as she turned to the side, turning to see the monster stepping towards her._

John gasped and sat up, eyes snapping open. Awake again. He tapped his phone – he had managed a full three hours before he had woken himself up. He pinched the bridge of his nose as he tried to blink the blurs in his vision away. Although he was not usually prone to nightmares – not since he had started living with Sherlock – the past month had been filled with them. He wasn't prone to being so affected by death, either, but he could at least start writing that off to lack of sleep.

John hadn't been able to stay asleep for long, when he was able to get any, and had been growing increasingly uneasy since he and Sherlock visited the crime scene and he had been able to see the broken and bloodied body of the victim firsthand. The pictures of the earlier murders hadn't had any kind of effect on him, and the photographs of the death that was currently being investigated did not do justice to the crime scene. Even moments after his nightmare, as he closed his eyes he still saw her body and her blank eyes.

It had been three days since he and Sherlock had visited the beach, and in those three days he had spent more time in the morgue than he ever had in the past thirty-nine years of his life. He looked to his right, towards the kitchen, where Sherlock was currently examining vials of blood. The blood was, at least, better than the arm that Sherlock had spent the afternoon the day prior cutting with various blades. He was growing increasingly annoyed that he had not yet found the murder weapon, but an annoyed, busy Sherlock was still much better than an annoyed and bored one. As if he could hear John thinking (and at times John imagined he could), the man looked up.

“Another nightmare,” he stated, not bothering to ask how he was. “Why?”

“What do you mean 'why'?” John replied, swinging his legs around the couch, feeling the last remains of drowsiness run from him.

“You seem unusually disturbed,” he said. “This is the kind of behaviour you reserve for serial kidnappings and dead children.”

John stared at him. “Are you worried?” What would a worried Sherlock look like, anyways?

“Do not mistake my curiosity for concern,” he replied, looking back at his vial of blood.

“I'll try to remember that.”

John, sitting up properly, stretched an arm out and looked around for the nearest cup of cold tea. Not finding one, he stood and walked towards Sherlock, looking down at the photographs, which had been arranged in a order he was sure only the detective could understand. He pulled a picture from the most recent murder towards himself.

“Did you know her?”

“No.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Did you date her?”

Now it was John's turn to be annoyed. “I haven't dated every woman in London, you know.”

“Not yet,” Sherlock muttered and looked away, adjusting one of the dials on his microscope.

“It's normal to be disturbed by death,”John said, pushing the photo back into place.

“Dull. Why?”

There was a silence between them for a moment, and only the sound of John shuffling papers around could be heard. John looked at the photographs below him, and decided on an answer that Sherlock may understand.

“It reminds me of the war.”

Sherlock spoke again, but quieter this time.

“Who's Sebastian?”

John's hand stilled, though he didn't give a response.

“You said it, while you were sleeping.” Sherlock was clearly not really looking at the slide underneath the microscope.

“Oh,” John said, and laid his hand flat on the table, brushing a thumb over the picture under it. “No one,” he said, before correcting himself. “No one important.”

Hoping and assuming Sherlock wouldn't expect any more information, he moved on to a different topic. “What are you doing with the blood anyways?”

Sherlock glanced up finally, looked him over, then answered, waving the question away with his hand. “Another murder, a few hours ago.”

John stood to attention, confused. “And you didn't think to wake me up? What happened?”

“There wasn't a body at the crime scene, and leaving the flat would have required interacting with yet another wholly incompetent team. Tedious,” he trailed off, and stood to collect a few more blank slides from the counter across from him. “Waiting for Lestrade to bring me the blood I need was much more efficient.”

“Right,” John replied, not quite getting it. “So how do you know it was a murder?”

Sherlock returned to John's side of the table and pushed him out of the way to grab a few more sheets of paper from a file. “Blood belonging to a single person was found at the crime scene; given the state of the street, more than enough was lost to kill our latest victim. Blood seems to be central to this case, and when the location and timing of the murder is considered, it is clearly related to the others. All that remains at the moment is figuring out _why_ the murderer's behaviour has changed.”Before John could speak, he added, “And that was not an opportunity for you to suggest a motive.”

John clicked his teeth together, trying not to roll his eyes. “Fine. Do you have any ideas, then?”

Sherlock smiled and turned a different stack of photographs on the cluttered table towards John. “My experiments last night may have been more successful than I first thought. Look at this one,” he said, gesturing to a picture at the top of the pile, which had been labeled according to some kind of code. In the picture was some kind of limb with two cuts running parallel to one another in it. “This one was made with a slightly altered garden fork. On a living human it should match the wounds found on the last victim exactly.”

John wasn't sure if he was supposed to laugh, or if he was being tested.

“You think there's a serial killer running around London killing people with a garden fork? And I'm the one who isn't supposed to be suggesting anything?”

“Obviously I don't,” Sherlock replied, scowling at John. “Don't be ordinary. No – this is simply the basic shape of the weapon that we should be looking for. Consider that all of the murders have occurred after dark, and all of the victims have exhibited remarkable blood loss.”

“Yes, so, what's your theory?”

"Vampires," he said, grinning, leaning towards John. A heavy silence filled the room.

"That's impossible," the doctor said.

Sherlock's grin disappeared, and was replaced by a look of indignation. "That was a joke."

"You're not particularly funny," John said, grimacing.

“My humour is wasted on you,” Sherlock said, turning back to his work as John moved towards the other side of the table, picking up a file and unclipping a map from where it had been tacked on to a wall. “What are you doing?”

John glanced back at his friend as he walked towards the stairs to his bedroom. “Going to bed. Go back to studying your blood.”

"Is there something you're not telling me?" Sherlock asked, projecting his voice across the flat, and wondering if he should perhaps readjust his opinion on casual humour during cases.

"There are a lot of things I'm not telling you," John muttered as he climbed the stairs.

Once inside his room, John closed and locked the door, and leaned against it, exhaling slowly. He had left his window open, and the room was cool and quiet, though the city outside was breathtakingly alive. He could see the dim lights of other flats, and farther away, the dark sky. Three hours and fifteen minutes until sunrise. John wished he didn't know that; Sherlock would wonder how he did.

Moving in the dim light of his bedside lamp, John laid out the map of London on his sparse desk and, with a red pen, marked down locations, some that were crime scenes, and some that were new. When he finished, he crossed his arms and looked down at it.

_It reminds me of the war._


	4. Chapter 4

“ _Madness were easy to bear compared with truth like this.”_

 

Molly Hooper had assumed that she would start her Monday the way she usually did, with a cup of coffee. She would fill out paperwork for a while, check what bodies had arrived overnight, and maybe grab lunch with one of the girls upstairs. What she did notexpect when she came into her lab that morning was seeing London's greatest mind perched on the edge of a metal slab, holding a tape measure up to a corpse.

John nodded at her apologetically. “Morning, Molly.”

She nearly dropped the mug she was carrying. “Is that – Sherlock, you can't just – _Greg_?” She asked, turning her attention from the detective to the DI, who had moved to the side of the room when she came in and was now looking up at her a bit sheepishly. 

“Hi.”

“Did you let him in?” She said, pointing at Sherlock accusingly. 

“Well, I -” He looked to John for help. John found himself suddenly fascinated by the floor tiles. “New body and all, I didn't really have time to call...”

“I haven't even started the autopsy on this one!” she said, walking towards the table, which Sherlock had just hopped off of.

“No need,” the man replied, pulling off his blue gloves and tossing them at the nearest trash bin. “The cause of death was blood loss. Clearly. Any of the daily papers could have told you that.”

That gave the pathologist pause. “It's another one of those murders?” 

“Came in last night,” Lestrade answered, eager to be helpful. “Twenty-eight, male, a postal worker. Doesn't seem to have any connection to the other cases.”

Molly walked closer to the pale body, and found a shiver run down her spine. As someone who spent most of her time around corpses, and was never very frightened by them, she found herself surprised at her reaction. 

“This is the first one since the empty crime scene,” she said, tilting her head as she tried to follow Sherlock's movements. “All the blood without a body.”

Lestrade nodded. “The team working on the case though it might be the last murder, seeing as nothing happened for a week after we found it. Apparently not.”Her thoughts were interrupted by Sherlock, and she looked at him as he walked to the head of the table, leaning down to look at the neck of the body. After staring at it for what seemed to be an undue amount of time, he straightened and swept around the metal table, stopping a few inches away and staring down at her.

“Have the blood that remains tested for toxins,” he ordered, and she frowned, an expression that was quickly becoming her default when presented with Sherlock in full working mode. “Alert me immediately if you find anything vaguely poisonous.” He looked at the body again. “Or if you find some kind of reptile venom on the corpse.”

“Reptile?” Lestrade asked.

John caught on before the policeman. “A snake bite?”

Sherlock turned his gaze on John.

“I kind of preferred the garden tool theory, to be honest.”

“Snakes?” the detective inspector questioned again.

“Yes, snakes,” Sherlock replied, now annoyed. He adjusted his scarf and turned, walking towards the door. “I don't know.”

Lestrade ran after him. “Did I just hear you say 'I don't know?' Oh, I've got to tell the boys at the Yard about this.”

“Do you enjoy having to replace your identification every week?”

“This could be worth it,” the older man said, and Molly could hear their voices trailing off.

Before he followed the others, John stepped towards her. “Do me a favour, all right Molly?”

“Sure?” She replied, putting down her cup on the workbench beside her.

“Be careful,” he said, awkwardly placing a hand on her arm. “These murders aren't stopping and Sherlock isn't close to figuring it out. Take care of yourself.”

He locked eyes with her, and after a moment she nodded. John let her go and moved quickly towards the door, hoping to catch up with Sherlock before he left the hospital.

“Oh, and order in some Italian tonight!” He called as he walked out the door, giving a final wave as he went.

“What?”she asked, but he was already too far down the hall to hear her.

Molly was more lost than ever.

-

At the entrance to the hospital, Lestrade parted ways with the pair, and Sherlock and John were left on their own in the taxi.

“Do you have any great ideas you're not letting on to?” John asked, turning to Sherlock and enjoying the few moments of relative quietness they had.

Sherlock looked out the window, his face difficult to read. John would call it a look of melancholy, if he thought his friend to be capable of it. At the very least, he was frustrated. After a minute of silence, he spoke. 

“It's like being trapped in an endless labyrinth,”he said finally.

“What is?”

“My mind. ” 

John didn't speak.

“Mysteries are meant to be solved. All things have a logical end. Murderers always make an error of judgement, and reveal their cards, or reveal themselves.” He paused. “This one has not.”

“And you don't like the mystery of it?”

“It's not organized,” he stated. “Humans panic. They see it as chaos, but there's always a pattern. I just can't find it.” 

Both of the men were quiet, and the only sound that could be heard was that of the cab on the damp pavement as it sped along the road back to Baker Street.

“Your new cologne,” Sherlock said, his voice appearing to surprise even him when he spoke. “I – it's nice.”

John turned to him, a bit lost, but not very bothered that he had lost the thread of the conversation again.

“That's... good.”

Sherlock cleared his throat as the cab stopped outside of the flat, and the pair made their way inside.

The remainder of the afternoon was spent the same way every afternoon the previous few weeks had been. John would analyze crime scene photographs, and Sherlock would stare at slides of blood and fibres found on the bodies; occasionally one or both of them would add a theory to the running list that currently covered seven pages of a notebook, which lay in the middle of their breakfast table. Sherlock, more than once, described them as 'unusually inefficient' – a phrase he had directed only at his doctor, but John had expanded to include Sherlock as well. 

As the clock struck seven, John stood from his chair and stretched, yawning as he turned slowly from side to side, trying to will the feeling back into his limbs. Shrugging on his nearest jacket, he slipped his wallet into his back pocket and turned to his friend.

“I'm getting dinner,” John said, pulling the zip of his coat up. “Try not to shoot anything while I'm gone.”

Sherlock smirked. “If you can make it back in under forty-five minutes your walls will be spared.”

John glanced at his gun, but decided against bringing it. He started to make his way down the stairs and towards the front door before he could change his mind. As he stepped into the cool night air, he looked up. The sky crept towards a deep blue as the sun fell, and a voice in the back of his head noted that it would be another nine hours until it rose again. At the end of the street, he turned right, swiftly stepping out of the glow of a streetlight. He walked along a narrow path, quietly passing shaded doorways - he justified this to himself as simply taking the scenic route to the restaurant. As his instincts took over, he wound down the street, and he could visualize the map that was currently pinned to the wall facing the windows of his bedroom. Dark alleys, abandoned buildings, quiet streets. Pushing his hands further into his jacket pockets, John slowed his pace as he glanced around. 

Lost in his thoughts, it finally occurred to him that it was completely dark, and had been for some time. He stopped entirely and took in his surroundings, his eyes already adjusted to the darkness. As he began to contemplate the best route to the closest main road, he turned and saw a street light beyond a tunnel. As he took a step towards it, he stopped. Had he chosen a different direction to walk, he may have missed it entirely, as the movements of the people many meters in front of him were so silent and subdued. Holding his breath, he moved forward, the sound of his shoes faintly moving along the pavement the only noise that could be heard. As he reached the mouth of the tunnel he stood still, and his hands dropped to his sides, the rest of his body intuitively taking on a defensive posture.

From where he stood, he could clearly see the back of a tall man, who was pinning a well-dressed young woman to the side of the tunnel, her neck twisted to the side unnaturally. From her neck and along her slightly shaking arms coursed a trail of blood, which snaked along the pale tiles below her. After a space of time that John could not measure, a sickening crack was heard, and the body of the woman collapsed on the ground, limp and unmoving. The man knelt down beside her, leaning forward to look at her. John took a step forward, his shoulders now free of tension as he faced the man.

Suddenly, the figure stood and turned. In the moonlight, John saw droplets of blood fall from the fangs, and on to the three piece suit, of Mycroft Holmes.


	5. Chapter 5

“ _He may not enter anywhere at the first, unless there be some one of the household who bid him to come, though afterwards he can come as he please. His power ceases, as does that of all evil things, at the coming of day.”_

 

Mycroft's eyes, dark in the shadows, locked on John's pale blue ones and for a moment they looked at one another, neither moving. In the space of time it took John to blink, Mycroft had disappeared, taking with him the silence that had filled the street like a fog. In the distance, John could hear the sound of the wind and, farther away, the peal of sirens. The threat of being found near a recently murdered woman pulling him from his frozen state, John quickly hurried back the way he came, taking a shortcut behind a row of houses as he made his way towards Baker Street, running on pure adrenaline. 

In what felt like only a few seconds, John had returned home, quickly locking the door behind himself as he entered. At the foot of the stairs, he closed his eyes and paused. First and foremost, he listened for movement and above him. Finally, he heard the sound of footsteps moving across the rug by the armchair – long, slow strides. Sherlock. At least his friend was fine. Mrs. Hudson was out that evening with Mrs. Turner – Wednesday was bridge night – so she wouldn't be in danger. Ideally, he thought to himself, she would overindulge in some sherry and stay overnight, as she was wont to do every so often. He weighed the level of suspicion he would provoke if he called and requested that she stay away from the flat. Deciding that a message would be safest, he sent his landlady a text implying that Sherlock was planning a very loud, night-long experiment. As he typed, purposely taking longer than usual and prolonging his stay at the bottom of the stairs, he knew he couldn't delay climbing the steps much longer. Sherlock, oblivious as he was to some things, had excellent hearing. Had it been any other night, John would have prepared an excuse for lingering so long downstairs. As it was, he couldn't think; not, at least, about Sherlock. Whenever he did, the image of Mycroft's lifeless eyes came to his mind, and all  rational thoughts he had flew from him.

Opening his eyes again, John began to walk upstairs. Fortunately, he didn't find Sherlock waiting for him at the door. Staying out of the line of sight of Sherlock's usual seat in the kitchen, he made his way to the sofa and found himself collapsing onto it rather unwillingly. All of the fight gone from him, John lay on his stomach, face pressed into a cushion, and a few limbs hanging off the side of the sofa. He tried to let his mind go blank. He was unsuccessful, and after some time, exhaled with what Sherlock – who had watched him return to the flat, and purposely ducked into the kitchen when he came upstairs – would have described as either a soft growl or an expletive. He couldn't be sure.

“You still think I can't see you when you come in through that door,” the detective stated, and if John had had the strength, his head would have snapped to the left to look at him. As it was, he turned until one of his eyes was visible, and looked at the other man. Sherlock had crept to him quietly while he hadn't been looking, and was sitting with his back against the coffee table, leaning towards John.

John groaned despite himself and turned away again, his voice muffled by the cushion beneath him.

“Leave me alone. I'm going to my mind tent.”

Sherlock avoided snorting at him. “You were supposed to go to the nearest, cheapest restaurant for provisions. Clearly you were unsuccessful.”

“Clearly.”

“Were you kidnapped again? I feel as though that happens often enough for it to become routine.”

Sherlock received a laugh, and felt a bit of the concern that was growing at the edges of his consciousness abate. 

“No, not kidnapped,” John replied, sitting up and resting his forearms on his legs as he ran a hand across his face. In the moment that he knew he was supposed to spend picking a reasonable lie, John looked at his friend properly. Occasionally he would catch Sherlock when he was unguarded, at the times when his face was free from stress, the lines of his face no longer drawn in thought. He looked so much younger that way. And now, seeing the relaxed, softly smiling expression of his best friend, he felt the pit at the bottom of his stomach grow, and his heart grow heavier. 

Sherlock and his brother weren't close – they had had many disagreements, some of which were serious enough to cause a permanent rift between them. But they were also related, and cared deeply for one another, proving so by their actions, if not by their words. While he was aware that Sherlock would never claim to be fond of his sibling, he also knew that he would take the death of his brother harder than anyone. 

' _Mycroft is dead_ ,' John thought to himself. He could almost feel his brain rewiring itself as it tried to acknowledge that fact. Barring anything spectacular, someone – or something – had killed Mycroft Holmes. He still walked and, presumably, spoke, the way he had in life, but he was no longer alive; he was something else completely. He was a vampire. ' _I need a drink,'_ the voice at the back of his head demanded. Shaking the thought away, he remembered that he had to give Sherlock some kind of explanation.

“Traffic accident on the road, couldn't get to the Chinese place you like,” John said. “And on my way home I ran into Sarah. It was awkward.” He hoped that explained his behaviour.

Sherlock huffed and stood. It was a touchy subject, and bringing it up made for a good lie. “I shouldn't have expected anything else. I'll call Angelo.”

“Order some garlic bread,” John said, watching Sherlock as he returned to the kitchen, and falling back, his lethargy returning. Part of him knew he should do something, even if it was just looking out the windows to see that the flat was safe. Another, stronger part begged him to stay where he was, to sit and talk with Sherlock, and enjoy the last few moments they had together before everything changed. Without much of a delay, their food arrived, and John eventually managed to pull his friend from his microscope and to the living room.

Seven hours later, the call from Lestrade came.

-

The officer that escorted John and Sherlock to Lestrade's office yawned and took a sip of his coffee as he walked, muttering about being called back after an eight hour shift to investigate yet another murder. John listened politely, but Sherlock didn't make an attempt to listen. His only concern was finding out what had happened, and if any of his theories about the murders (of which he had many) would be proven correct. As they reached the DI's office, John was very nearly pushed to the side when Sherlock passed him. The younger officer nodded to John and departed, and the men were left alone. 

“Are you the only one here?” Sherlock asked. The day had just begun, and the pale orange light that streamed through the windows at the far end of the empty office suggested that the city was not yet awake.

“Come right in,” Lestrade said, sighing and gesturing at the seats in front of his desk. “Everyone else is scouring the city. Half of my team's at the crime scene, the other half is still at the hospital. That's where I'll be shortly as well, but I though I'd speak to you two while I still have a bit of free time.”

Sherlock still hadn't taken his seat, and looked down at Lestrade as he spoke, his mind already trying to put the pieces together. “The hospital? Why?”

“The latest victim wasn't dead when we found her,” Lestrade said. Everything about his appearance suggested exhaustion.

“What?” John said, even before Sherlock. 

Greg looked at him. “She was just holding on, though there wasn't much to hold on to. They found her about ten minutes from your place. Looked just like the others; blood everywhere... It was like something had tried to rip her throat out. She couldn't even say what the murderer looked like. Couldn't gesture. The medics on site got her sedated fairly quickly, but seeing the absolute panic in her eyes before they did...” Lestrade shook his head and looked away. “It's one of those nights no man wants to do this job.”

“When was she found?”

“About one. Around dawn she opened her eyes again, but then she was gone. The only person who knows what we're dealing with and she's dead.” Lestrade took a sip of his coffee and muttered, “just like the rest.”. Sherlock stared through him as he tried to make connections. “Have you two figured out a motive? Found any evidence you're not sharing? Anything.”

Neither Sherlock or John spoke. 

“Look, I've received orders from above, and I'm going to have to -”

“No,” Sherlock said, his eyes going dark as he snapped at Lestrade and stared him down. “Do not finish that sentence.”

John looked from one man to the other. “Are we being taken off the case?” He asked, crossing his arms and nodding at the folder on Lestrade's desk.

“To be completely accurate neither of you were exactly _on_ the case to begin with. These serial murders have gone to an entirely new level, and I'm sure you two see that. A victim found alive and covered in blood? That's a nightmare. No one in my department is going to see the light of day until we've found a way to stop this. The force is officially on lockdown, which means that no one without a badge is getting their hands on any of these case files.”

John was positive that whatever was going to come out of Sherlock's mouth next would be unpleasant and require more apologies than he had time to give, so he spoke first. “Makes sense. I know this isn't pleasant for you.”

Sherlock turned his gaze on John, nearly baring his teeth as he spoke. “'Makes sense?' Being thrown off the case we've spent weeks on because someone has decided that _I'm_ somehow less competent than The Met's police officers? Who authorized this?” He turned back on Lestrade, who was already looking weary.

“Someone who has more sway than I do. If it helps at all, it wasn't my choice,” he said, putting his cup down. Before he had finished speaking, Sherlock was halfway out of the door. 

“Thanks for taking the time to tell us. Good luck, Greg,” John said, trying to force a smile, and barely managing.

“Make sure he knows it wasn't up to me,” Lestrade said quietly, looking on the window on his right. “No one knows how to handle this.”

John thought about that for a moment, watching the sun as it reached the edge of a distant building, and departed soundlessly. He chased after Sherlock, but his friend neither slowed or responded to his questions, and left in his own cab. Even at Baker Street, Sherlock wouldn't speak, throwing slides and papers towards the trash before changing into pajamas and curling up on the couch.

After he had made himself breakfast, John began to gather the work they had done on the case into a box, and sipped his tea while he looked at his miserable friend. He wasn't pleased to be off the case, but he wasn't taking it the way that Sherlock was. To Sherlock, it wasn't just a project, or a mystery to be solved – it was _his_ mystery, and his alone to figure out. It didn't help that John felt a growing sense of guilt about knowing who the murderer was, although whenever that thought came into his mind, he pushed it away. He hoped that the longer he ignored what he had seen the night prior the less real it would become.

John spent the day cleaning the kitchen and, in an effort to silence his mind, the rest of the flat. He wondered if that was what it felt like to be in Sherlock's mind. By the mid-afternoon, he had managed to get a cup of tea in his flatmate's hands, and label most of the errant folders that were laying around the room. By seven thirty, he had everything organized, and he had convinced Sherlock to focus his attention on answering some of the comments on his website. With plenty of time to spare, he headed out to Lestrade's office again, leaving all of Sherlock's notes with Sally, who was oddly cooperative. Sharing the same worn-out expression as the DI, she mentioned that she had been at the crime scene as well, and had seen the victim while she gasped for air. It had taken a toll on everyone, and John found himself delayed as he tried to give a few words of comfort to the woman in front of him, as he had so many times before in his capacity as a doctor. 

What John had thought would be a quick trip extended long past when he had expected to leave, and when he stepped outside, he saw the blackness of night creeping across the sky. Twenty minutes to dusk. 

Positive that he was in a race against time, John started a slow jog to the end of the street, then broke out into a run as he turned the corner, directing himself as best as he could towards 221B until he found an empty cab. As he exited at the end of the road and started running towards the flat again, he stopped involuntarily a few steps from the door. _Vampire_.

The very air around him had changed, and he could feel electricity pricking at his fingertips. The sounds around him seemed clearer than ever, with every drop of water and wheel on concrete intensified and distinct in his ears. He walked forward and up the stairs, brushing a hand against one of the weapons he had concealed in his jacket pocket.

As he turned into the main room, he saw Sherlock absently plucking at his violin, staring at the pale, older man across from himself. Typing on the phone in one of his hands, Mycroft smiled and turned.

“Good evening, John.”


	6. Chapter 6

“ _He smiled, such a soft, smooth, diabolical smile that I knew there was some trick behind his smoothness.”_

 

After a second's hesitation, noticed only by Mycroft, John replied. 'Evening.”

He walked towards Sherlock, trying to maintain as much of an air of nonchalance as he could while still keeping an eye on the politician. He stopped a few feet from Sherlock's chair; far enough away to not alarm his friend, but close enough to put himself between the brothers should the need arise. Mycroft being a vampire aside, it was probably a good place to be whenever the two Holmes men conversed.

“Won't you have a seat?"

"I don't want to sit down," John answered, recalling the response he gave the first time he met Mycroft.

Tilting his head to the side slightly, Mycroft smiled, observing the shorter man's movements.

"I was just speaking to Sherlock about a case that may possibly occupy your time, now that the pair of you have been so... _unceremoniously_ removed from the current murder investigations."

Sherlock scowled. 

“It could be worthwhile for you, dear brother.”

“The scandals of politicians do not interest me.”

“The man of whom I speak, Doctor Watson, is an old acquaintance of our mother's. He seems to have found himself being blackmailed by his wife as well as his mistress. I'm sure that it would be prudent, in the interests of keeping the government running efficiently during such a crucial time in the election season, to deal with it as discreetly as possible. I would go into further detail, but this is, as I'm sure you understand, a very sensitive issue.”

“You can hardly expect me to have any interest in a case you can't tell me about,” Sherlock said, leaning back in his chair.

“My hands are tied, I'm afraid. If you would come to my office, the files could be in your hands by,” he looked at his watch, “Nine thirty, at the very latest.”

“No,” Sherlock stated again.  
“Perhaps you, John, could come on my brother's behalf,” he suggested, smiling serenely.

Sherlock looked John over and shrugged. He began playing with his bow again, and for what felt like the hundredth time in his life, he wished that Sherlock would pay more attention to the concerns of others.

"It's a bit late for you, isn't it?" John asked. 

“Oh, no, I insist. It would be a very short meeting.”

“I could come in the morning,” John countered.

“Nonsense. You'll come now,” Mycroft said, his insincere request becoming an outright demand. 

John looked at Mycroft in silence, and Sherlock began to look up at him from where he sat. Immediately John answered.

“Fine.”

“Excellent,” Mycroft replied, picking up his umbrella and walking towards the stairs, looking back at John and Sherlock. “My car is outside. Have a pleasant evening, brother.” Sherlock didn't look at him. 

“Just a second,” John said, and stepped in to the kitchen before he could be stopped by Mycroft. Moments later, he returned and looked at him. “All right. After you.”Mycroft's eyes scanned his face, and seemingly not seeing what he was looking for, walked down to the waiting car. 

The ride passed in silence, and neither man spoke as the car wound its way through London. After half an hour, it pulled up to a large building that John didn't recognize. Mycroft directed him into the building, which was silent and free of people, and took him up one floor with the elevator, not speaking a single word to him. Walking along a few halls, Mycroft stopped outside of two large, heavy oak doors, pulling a key from his pocket to unlock them. Standing beside the opened doors, Mycroft gestured for John to enter. Turning his back on the vampire for the first time, John could feel the hairs on the back of his neck prickling, and knew he was being watched. Once far enough inside to give himself distance from Mycroft, the older man entered and shut the door, a subtle click echoing through the spacious room as it locked. 

The place that Mycroft had taken him was an office, but not one of the many that he had been brought to prior, on the occasions that the Holmes decided to kidnap him for a cup of tea. It was by far the largest of the rooms that John had been taken to, panelled in wood, with its rich crimson walls hung with art. He wouldn't have been surprised if it actually belonged to Mycroft, rather than one of his employees. 

The man walked across the room directly to a set of glasses and decanters, pouring himself a glass of whiskey and swirling it as he returned to the centre of the room. John imagined Mycroft had poured it out of habit; it was very likely that he was not used to being unable to consume anything other than blood. That, or Mycroft assumed that John didn't know what was going on. At times John appreciated the relative anonymity the Watson surname afforded him.

“I believe you and I have something to discuss,” Mycroft said, getting to the point and not making an effort to move the conversation towards the armchairs next to them.

“Yes, the case you mentioned. Clearing up that politician's scandal,” John answered without any seriousness.

Mycroft, unamused, didn't acknowledge him. “I'm aware that you believe you saw something -”

“I know what I saw,” John stated firmly, his posture reminding Mycroft of the defiance the man before him never seemed to be without. 

“Ever the soldier, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft said, the feigned politeness he had used up until that point disappearing. He set his untouched glass on the table beside him. “Are you positive this is a war you want to enter?”

“That choice was made for me a long time ago,” John replied. “Threatening me won't change what you've done – or what you are.”

“And what would that be?” Mycroft challenged.

“A murderer,” John returned.

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. “How dangerous do you imagine I am, John? How fast do you believe I could kill you?”

“I know exactly how dangerous you are. That's why I came with you.”

“Then you know that in this instance, your best option is silence. Consider what you saw merely another nightmare. Something that never took place.”

“You know I can't do that,” John answered, his eyes scanning the room briefly. No windows. “Because forgetting this won't keep anyone else from dying.”

Mycroft smiled at him icily. “I wouldn't mourn your death.”

“Maybe not, but your brother would.”

Something in Mycroft's expression changed, and for a second his defences fell. “My brother is not to be involved in this.”

“What, wouldn't you like him to be?” 

In seconds, John found himself pushed against the wall, pinned with Mycroft's forearm against his throat and his nails digging into one of his arms. “Do not dare to even think about telling my brother.” He pushed forward, seething as he stared down at John's face a breath away. His fangs came out and the edges of his lips raised enough to make them visible.

Speaking only in gasps as he tried to free himself from Mycroft's grip, he replied, “How long do you really think you'll be able to hide this?”

Pushed over the edge by the warmth and sheer _life_ of the man beneath him,  and overwhelmed by the scent of the blood where his nails had pierced the skin of John's arm through his jumper, Mycroft's concentration broke. His arm, moving from John's neck, was quickly replaced by his mouth, which opened and bit down.

“You really don't want to do that,” John said, his voice rough from being choked, gritting his teeth against the pain that flooded every nerve.

Mycroft bent down further, dragging his teeth against John's throat and deepening the cut, running a hand through John's hair until he had enough of a handful to pull it to the side. As unconnected thoughts flitted through John's mind, it occurred to him that the deep gashes found on the bodies of some of the victims must have been due to Mycroft not simply biting down and drawing blood, but by fiercely wounding them.

Feeling a bit light-headed, John let out a chuckle, raising a free hand and resting it on Mycroft's elbow. “Don't say I didn't warn you.”

Mycroft, who had until that point been consumed by the notion of drinking from John, had managed to ignore the movement of the man beneath him, but what he said made him pause for a moment – long enough to notice a certain darkness at the edges of his vision. Pulling himself a few centimetres away from the shorter man's neck, he was struck by a sudden powerlessness that ran through him from head to toe. Backing away and no longer holding on to John, he nearly stumbled, looking at the man before him with an expression of confusion. John stepped forward as Mycroft faltered and fell to his knees, his fangs retracting and the pupils of his eyes blowing wide.

In the moments before he lost consciousness, falling into the fog of his mind as his world went grey, he thought he saw John leaning down, guiding him to the floor.After a few seconds, he heard only the sound of a single heart beating.


	7. Chapter 7

“ _...Though sympathy can't alter facts, it can make them more bearable.”_

 

When Mycroft came to, he became aware of a dull throbbing in his head. For the first time since being turned, he could feel pain. Excruciating pain, the sort of which cut beyond flesh. Daring to open one of the eyes he had been keeping pressed shut, he looked down towards the source of pain. Around either wrist, tied to the armrests of the chair he was now sitting in, were thin chains that seemed to radiate heat. As the fog in his head cleared, they came into focus.

“Silver,”he murmured.

“Yep,” said a voice across from him. He looked up, opening his other eye gingerly and blinking, trying to see the smaller man better.

“I thought silver was used on werewolves,” he said. He was beginning to feel less nauseous.

“Werewolves don't exist,” John stated, amused, as he shifted a bit in his chair.

Regaining his senses, Mycroft looked away from John and began to evaluate his present situation as quiet minutes passed. Since he had lost consciousness, John had managed to move him into one of the sturdy wooden chairs that usually sat across from his desk on the other side of the room. John himself sat in one of the armchairs, and was sipping from the glass of scotch Mycroft had put down earlier. Although he considered moving his hands, he sensed that it would cause further pain and instead nodded down at his wrists“Why?”

“Aside from trying to make sure you don't try to rip my throat out again?” He asked, gesturing to his neck, which he held one of Mycroft's own handkerchiefs to. Lines of dried blood ran down from the wound to his jumper, a great portion of which had turned a deep scarlet.

“My apologies,” Mycroft responded uncomfortably, suddenly self conscious. He didn't notice any blood on his own person – John must have cleaned him up. “How long were you waiting?”

“You were out about twenty minutes,” John answered. “That's about as long as hemlock can be relied on.”

“Hemlock?”

“Extract of, yeah,” John said, taking another sip of the drink, and tossing the used piece of cloth to the side table. “Never leave the house without it.”He pulled a small bottle from his pocket and held it out far enough for Mycroft to see it. A small amount of the liquid moved around in the glass.

Mycroft considered this, and John counted on him catching up without needing to explain everything. He slipped the bottle back in his pocket.

“When you went to the kitchen, before we came here. There was a reason for that.”He pursed his lips; it was foolish of him to underestimate the doctor.

“I put a little of it on my neck, just in case,”John said. “I had a feeling you'd show up at Baker Street.”

Mycroft sighed. “You knew I'd try to kill you.”

“No – I knew you'd get hungry. For all your talk, I know I'm one of the last people you want to kill. You're remarkably bad at this, and not nearly as intimidating as you try to be. Did Mrs. Hudson let you in?”

“Sherlock did, actually,” Mycroft said, leaning back, and trying to look as dignified as possible given his current status. “Why hemlock?”

“Figures,” John said, chuckling spiritlessly. “The one time he should continue ignoring you, and he doesn't. He probably sensed that you were dangerous. He seems to have that instinct. As to your question, who knows? The same could be said for other things - why garlic?”

Mycroft nodded in agreement and raised his wrists slightly, immediately flinching as the chains dug further into his skin. A few drops of blood fell from the cut, and Mycroft looked up from his hands to John, pleading.

John finished off the glass and sat back, tapping the fingers of his right hand on the armrest of the chair as he watched Mycroft. After a moment, he stood.

“You know, I can't even say that I'd _like_ to let you go, because right now, I really don't,” he began to pace, walking behind his chair and putting the glass down on the end table. His eyes, which never left Mycroft, were darker than the politician had ever seen them. In the moment of silence he had, Mycroft took his chance to analyze John. Although his memories still felt distant and disconnected from him, he was sure that he had made contact with John's neck earlier in the evening – the blood covering his jumper was proof of that.

“You've come out of this remarkably unscathed,” he observed.

John, who was staring intently at the cushion of the chair whose back he was gripping, stared blankly back at him, unsure if he was serious.

“There's hardly a mark on your neck,” he elaborated.

“Ah,” John said, nodding. “Yeah, well. Consider this my area of expertise.”He walked back towards the bar, where Mycroft couldn't see him, and returned with a bottle of water.

“I sense there's a lot you aren't telling me, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft murmured.

John laughed bitterly and took a sip of water. “And there's a lot I don't plan to tell you, too. You realize she lived, don't you? The woman you murdered? She survived long enough to relive the terror of you slowly draining away her life for god knows how many hours before she passed away.”

The blood in Mycroft's veins – John's blood – left his face and he appeared even more pale than usual. “I'm sorry, I didn't know.”

“Don't you dare apologize to me,”John said, interrupting. “You couldn't just kill her properly, could you?” John raised his voice and took a few steps toward Mycroft. “I thought she had died – I could have saved her.” Mycroft flinched and looked up at John. After staring down at him for a moment, John regained his composure, unclenched his hands, and spoke softly but dangerously. “A woman died and it's my fault. I just left her there. Who was the first? The woman from the bank? Did you give her a peaceful death or did she die screaming too?”

“She was,” Mycroft, for what he believed was perhaps the third time in his life, was at a loss for words. “I knew her. Occasionally she...” His usual subdued manner couldn't conceal his legitimately upset expression, and in that moment appeared younger to John than he ever had before. “Occasionally she worked for the bank. I didn't mean to.”

Thrown by the emotion that the Holmes was displaying, John put his barely touched water down and gave himself a moment to catch up. He leaned on the back of the chair.“You ate your bank teller.”

John barely managed to keep from burying his head in his hands and ignoring the world for a while. He vacillated between trying to impress upon Mycroft the magnitude of his actions, while at the same time trying to comfort a hopelessly lost new vampire, if not out of empathy, then because he was a blood relation to his best friend. He considered whether his current situation would be any easier to navigate if Mycroft were a stranger, but came to the conclusion that it most certainly wouldn't.

“I didn't know what to do,” Mycroft said, looking down and following the hands of his watch as they ticked by. A few drops of blood had managed to make their way through the glass and had stained the face; the fleeting notion that it was an adequate representation of how he was spending his time as of late came and went. “I didn't know what to do. I tried to ignore it, the all-consuming obsession. I could walk down the street and hear every single heart around me beating.”

“And it didn't occur to you to ask your maker what to do if you needed to drink?”

“I don't know who mine is,” Mycroft said, looking back up at John.

“You... That's not possible, Mycroft,” John said, straightening up and crossing his arms again. “Someone had to have turned you.”

“Clearly,” Mycroft said. “But they have not, as yet, made his or herself known.”

John shook his head and looked away, moving closer to Mycroft.“What do you remember about what happened? And when were you turned? This has to be recent, you kidnapped me last month to find out why Sherlock was forging your signature to get into the archives on that museum case. You were definitely alive then.”

“The day prior to the first...” He glanced at John and didn't finish the sentence. “I was spending a late night at the Diogenes Club,” he said, eyes distant as he remembered. “I needed silence to finish some important paperwork. I don't know why I thought it was so necessary to finish at the time.”

“Then?”

“That's all,” Mycroft answered, gaze lingering on John's neck before he looked away again. “That's all I remember.”

Neither man spoke as John considered this.

“And you woke up where?”

“In my home. Under it, rather, with such a longing for blood. So specific, the craving, it was unlike anything else I had ever felt. Of course it has not been simple, and the reading available on this...  _ condition _ has been inconsistent at best, but when I felt the burn of the sun hours later it seemed clear what I had become. And so you find us here.”

"Have you been going to work?"

"I've taken a leave of absence."  


“That's probably for the best." John shifted and felt the rosary in his pocket move against his leg. "For someone without any guidance, you're surviving rather well.”

Mycroft appeared pensive and sighed before speaking softly. “Perhaps I shouldn't be. My final death may be more beneficial to London.” 

Although he had planned to yell at the other man, John felt himself losing the will to be angry at Mycroft. He slowly lowered himself back into his chair. He rubbed his thumb against one of his temples, and in the soft light the lines on his face seemed deeper than usual. No longer frustrated, he looked back to Mycroft, and leaned in, resting his crossed arms on his legs.

“Is that really what you want?” Mycroft's silence gave his answer and John sighed. "No. I've lost too many people already. It's not a death sentence, you know, all of this.”

Mycroft stared at him.

“Poor choice of words, maybe - you are dead - but it's not the end of everything. You're brilliant. And one day you're going to be terrifying, brilliant, and immortal. And things will be better."

“There is nothing left for me in this world,” Mycroft said quietly, with a hint of the humanity he had tried so hard to repress in his mortal life.

“Yeah, there is,” John said, smiling gently. “You find a partner – a human – and you drink from them. It doesn't have to be romantic, but I imagine you'd feel a whole hell of a lot more fulfilled coming home to someone who cares for you after whatever it is you _do_ for a living. No one dies, you get to move on with your existence, and I don't have to come back and kill you.” John pointed at himself. “Everyone wins, except for the people you've already killed. I'm still not sure how I'm going to sort that one out; I'm half tempted to leave it to you, if you can promise you're not going to overlook the victims' families.”

“No, of course, they'll be taken care of,” he said, nodding. “The pair of them deserved better.”

“What?” He said, head turning quickly and his brow furrowing.

“The families of the two people I killed, I will find some way to make amends.”

“I got that, but what do you mean 'two'? What about all of the other people who have died?”

“The other deaths?” he said, puzzled. “I'm not responsible for them. I don't know who killed them, but I'm afraid I'm not at fault.”

John glanced to the blood that still crept down the wall by the door, and could hear the words 'you see but you do not observe' echoing through his head as the implications of this ran through his mind. “Oh, for Christ's sake,” he said, throwing the silver off Mycroft's wrists and running out the door. After a second's wait, Mycroft followed suit, picking up his jacket and phone as he went.


	8. Chapter 8

_“Devils or no devils, or all the devils at once, it matters not. We must fight him all the same.”_

 

It wasn't until John was nearly at the doors of the lobby that he noticed that Mycroft was following him. 

“Joining me, then?”

“You look as though you have a plan,” the other man said, adjusting his tie. “I couldn't resist the opportunity to see what you're going to do.”

“Half the battle is looking prepared,” John answered, pushing the door open with his shoulder as he pulled on a pair of gloves. “Your government influence – how fast could it get us a cab?”

Mycroft smiled as he removed his phone from his breast pocket. “I'll have the car come around again.”In a few moments, the pair were in the vehicle, headed towards the shouted address of 221B Baker Street. John, unnervingly still, was quiet, but his eyes moved quickly back and forth across the streets they passed.

Mycroft watched him, listening as well for a sound it seemed only John could hear. 

“Would it be imprudent to ask what you intend to do when you return home?”

John pulled his eyes from the road to look at Mycroft. “I'm going to find out why I haven't heard about this, first of all. Next I'll try to figure out a plan of attack to get this under control.”

“It's not as though these deaths are an epidemic quite yet. You weren't so worried before.” 

“It's not the deaths that I'm worried about.”

The car stopped at an intersection and the pale red light illuminated John's face while he spoke. “These deaths are the sign of a greater problem; the tip of the iceberg. Vampires don't just kill humans for the hell of it anymore, that's not strictly how they operate these days. They either turn them, or drink from them and leave them alive. It's a survival tactic. You attract less attention to yourself if you aren't murdering your source of food each night.” He looked pointedly at Mycroft.

“Of course. What is the greater problem?”

“The only vampires London has anymore are very good at hiding what they do. The only time a mature vampire would leave a body behind would be if it were trying to create a new vampire, and failed. Turning has its risks, obviously, but for a practiced vampire it becomes easier - say for every ten people that are turned, one dies in the process. A pretty good success rate, as it goes, but it's rare for a vampire to attempt to create any more than two. There have been four deaths so far, not counting the ones you're responsible for.”

“Forty new vampires?” Mycroft asked.

“At least. Something of this magnitude had to be arranged by an old vampire, which changes the ratio. There could be a hundred new vampires in London.”

“Of which... I'm one,” he murmured, a pale hand instinctively curling where the handle of his umbrella would usually be.

“Maybe, maybe not,” John answered. “I'm not sure. It could have just been chance that you were made into a vampire when you were.”A few more minutes passed in silence before John spoke again. “It could be nothing. I could be wrong, and god knows I hope I am, but I should have noticed this before. Whoever's managed to pull this off without any great consequences is either going to be powerful or insane.”

As they pulled up to the curb outside 221B, John took out his phone, glancing at it and slipping it back in his pocket. “I'm going to grab a few things and check some maps. Shouldn't take long.”When he turned to look at Mycroft, he found the seat empty, and his own door being opened. By the time John slid out of the car, Mycroft had already made it to pavement and was striding towards the door. “I'm never going to get used to you being that fast.” 

Mycroft smirked as he held open the front door. “After you, doctor.”

At the top of the stairs, John turned quickly and stopped at the door to the empty sitting room, leaning in and listening. “Sherlock's out. Good.” He pushed himself back and headed up the stairs to his own room. “I'll be back in a second. Grab my gun for me.”

When he heard footsteps overhead, Mycroft entered the living room and picked up John's gun from the coffee table, tracing the side of it with a pale finger. While not entirely inexperienced with similar weapons, he couldn't help but feel awkward slipping it into one of the silk lined pockets of his trousers.

“Back again?” Sherlock asked as he walked up the stairs from Mrs. Hudson's, followed by Lestrade, tossing another notebook to the stack of books at the base of his desk. 

"Yes," Mycroft answered stiffly. “I wasn't aware you were home. Hello, Inspector.” He nodded at the man, who had made his way to an armchair, and wondered if there was a way to warn the doctor.

“Apparently I forgot to submit one of my journals to evidence.” Sherlock looked down at Lestrade, then back to his brother. “Has John told you off yet for kidnapping him again?”

"John has my request under consideration. Has the detective inspector taken pity on you and allowed you back on the case?" 

Sherlock glared at his brother. Mycroft looked to his left at Greg Lestrade, who had begun flipping through a book.

"Evening, Mycroft. Having Sherlock translate his notes, actually."

"I'm impressed. He seems to be so rarely inclined to perform charitable acts." Sherlock purposely moved one of his books with more force than was necessary.

"Don't provoke him," Lestrade warned. “I've given him a hard enough time already.”

“I would be more forgiving if you would allow me five minutes in -”

“ _No_ ,” Lestrade said emphatically, denying Sherlock's request before it could be said.

“Do you really imagine your team has any hope whatsoever of catching the killer?”

“You certainly couldn't.”

Sherlock's jaw clenched and he leaned forward. “I would have better luck.” The men stared at one another, in a battle of wits, before Lestrade broke and looked away, shaking his head.

Mycroft walked towards the table and glanced down at the papers Sherlock had stacked in some sort of order. The word vampire didn't appear anywhere – he wasn't surprised. As the other men in the room quietly read through case notes, Mycroft paused and allowed his mind to focus. Having fed on John so recently, he felt as though every part of his body had been retuned, with every nerve on fire, and his skin electrified. As the outer edges of his thoughts went silent, he could see the world around him with infinitely more detail than he ever could in life. He could hear the softly beating hearts of the detectives – Greg's slow, Sherlock's faster – and see the blood pass under the thinner skin of their wrists and necks. The hunger was still there, and he couldn't imagine it would ever disappear completely, but the edge was gone, and he no longer felt like a threat to the humans before him. Overhead, he could sense another person, who gave off an entirely different scent and life force. Not unpleasant, exactly, but not as rich and vibrant as Greg or Sherlock's. It was completely unlike theirs. When he payed close enough attention, he could hear John's breathing. He heard the sound of metal on metal – a safe? - and the movement of fabric. Seconds later, he heard quick movement, and then the sound of feet hitting steps. All eyes turned towards the door frame as John, out of breath, appeared behind Mycroft, looking down at the crossbow he was fiddling with. “Tonight. The next murder is going to be tonight, south side of the Thames somewhere.” He looked up and was met with the wide eyes of Lestrade and an expressionless Sherlock, whose head had snapped up the second his flatmate's foot hit the last step of the stairs. “Shit,” he murmured.

“There's going to be a murder tonight? How do you know?” Lestrade stood quickly, mouth agape as he stood up and walked towards John. Sherlock moved around the table, also coming close to the doctor, who took a step backwards as he lowered the crossbow. 

He looked towards Mycroft, smiling tightly, then back at Lestrade. “Evening, Greg,”he said, greeting the detective inspector with a nod. “It's nothing. I said _if_ there's a murder tonight, perhaps it would...” He stopped talking, and glanced at Sherlock, who was giving him a look that John recognized as disapproval. He didn't need to finish speaking to see how transparent his lie was, and immediately took a different approach. “It's just a theory.”

“What kind of theory, exactly?" The detective inspector asked again, crossing his arms.

“I – well, Mycroft and I – were looking at a map of city with the crime scenes and the locations of a few other weird activities marked on it, and it looked like there was a pattern. Once you take out two of the murders, at least, they're the only ones that don't fit. Otherwise it's working on a lunar cycle – the murders are occurring on new moons and full moons. For the most part, anyways. And down the south side is the only area where a body hasn't been found yet.” His gestured as his voice faltered, and looked at Mycroft. “Right?”If the truth was his only option, he was prepared to use only as much of it as he absolutely needed to.

“Ah,” Mycroft said, covering the bewilderment in his expression easily. “Quite right.”

Lestrade tilted his head, his expression one of confusion. "It's not a full moon tonight. Or a new moon, for that matter."

“How would you even-” John started. "Nevermind. It's just a gut feeling I have."

“Fine, okay,” Lestrade said. “And where does the crossbow work into that?” He uncrossed an arm and pointed at the weapon that John was still holding.

“Oh, that,” he said, laughing and placing it on the table beside him, ignoring the question. “Right, then. Silly theory anyways, shall we go?” He asked Mycroft, and made his way for the door. 

Mycroft nodded, but before he could move, Sherlock spoke. “Stop.”

Lestrade looked up at Mycroft, finally beginning to wonder why he was there.

“You've had worse theories. Lestrade and I will join you,” he said. 

“Actually, I should get back to the office,” Lestrade said, glancing at the clock on the wall. 

“Yes, you really should. You have coffee to drink as you contemplate all of the dead ends you've reached,” Sherlock said sarcastically.

Lestrade shrugged. “Fair point.”

John tensed, his rigid hands and his obviously forced smile the only parts of him that belied his annoyance. “That's really not necessary Sherlock. You and Lestrade were busy doing something here, I'm sure.”

“Nothing of importance,” Sherlock countered.

Realizing he had no other way out, John reluctantly accepted his offer. “Fine,” he said, turning to go down the stairs. “Just don't go wandering off.”

“I wouldn't dare,”Sherlock said, slipping on his coat. 

Twenty minutes, one hailed taxi, and an uncomfortably close ride later, the four men – one of whom was at a total loss about what they were looking for, and another under the mistaken belief that he wasn't – were dropped off by the water and began their walk along the road. Against John's unexplainable protests, Lestrade had alerted his own team about his whereabouts, but left out any details about what he was investigating. Sherlock focused his flashlight on the beach, but seeing nothing, continued to walk with the group. 

“Do you... hear anyone being murdered?” Lestrade asked John while the Holmes brothers walked ahead of them, looking down the dark roads around them. 

“Not quite yet, no,” John said. “Sorry about this, Greg. It was really just supposed to be me and Mycroft here tonight.”

The older man shook his head. “Don't apologize, it's fine. I know you're as concerned about these murders stopping as anyone. Besides, what else am I going to do tonight? To be totally honest, we don't have any new leads, even with all of Sherlock's notes to read through. The lunar thing, though, we could look into that.” He turned his flashlight on an empty side street to his left, then clicked it off altogether. 

After another five minutes of walking, and Sherlock ducking into door frames and alleys every so often, John and Mycroft both suddenly stopped. They glanced at one another, and Sherlock walked back to the group, frowning about having to wait for them. 

“What's wrong?” Lestrade asked, and was silenced by Mycroft, who raised his hand.

“Quiet.” 

Everyone waited, and John felt the air around them change, becoming harder to see through, as a light fog curled ahead of them.

“There,” John said, more to himself than the other men, as he directed the group to a large alley, directly between two abandoned brick warehouses. The atmosphere had become so dark that, though there was a streetlight in the passage, the end of it could not be seen.

“Stand still, stay behind Mycroft, do not move,” John instructed, speaking to the three men through gritted teeth. No one spoke as he took his gun from Mrcroft and handed it to Sherlock. “It will buy you time. Lestrade, take out yours.” He turned, and looked around himself as he stepped forward, and the group, silent mostly out of shock, stayed where they were. Neither Sherlock or Lestrade questioned John, who had taken on an intensity they had never before seen in him. Looking from his left to right as he walked forward, John could feel eyes in the darkness watching him. He stopped in the middle of the road and stood still. Mycroft was immediately reminded of the way the man must have looked in his days as a soldier.

Without a second's notice, a dark shape moved out of the darkness, coming towards John from his left. Reaching behind himself, under his jacket, he pulled out two previously unnoticeable silver blades, unhooking them from a hidden pocket. 

“What the hell is that?” Lestrade asked, his voice far away in John's ears. Mycroft grabbed the edge of the detective inspector's coat, pulling him back to relative safety. 

Just as the figure reached him, a knife sliced through the air, and just as soon as it had come, the vampire lay unmoving on the pavement. With his toe, John pushed it on to its back, and Lestrade let out a groan as the twisted face rolled to face the group. Its neck, nearly severed, let out a steady river of old blood, pooling around John's feet.

“That's your warning. You get one,” John shouted to the blackness before him. A drop of dark blood fell to the pavement from the tip of one of his knives. “Leave now and I will end this peacefully.” 

Silence.

John rolled his shoulders, stretching, and muttered,“Your choice,” walking forward to greet the darkness.

After a second, two vampires entered the alley and walked to either side of John, eyes darting towards his neck as they hissed. One moved to bite John, but was met with a blade to the arm as John moved quickly to the side. A brief burst of steam appeared from the cut as the silver stung the skin of the vampire, who appeared surprised to have missed. The other, taking its chance while John was distracted, swept an arm at the knife in John's hand, causing the weapon to fly to the ground many meters in front of them. Allowing the force of the hit to spin him, John caught his balance quickly and kicked the vampire away from him, sending him flying backwards into a stack of crates at the side of the alley, and near the three men who were waiting. Behind them, a female vampire walked to the group, running inhumanly fast to Sherlock and pulling him forward. Immediately, he shot her with John's gun, just as Lestrade did the same to the vampire that was pulling itself up out of a pile of broken boxes. Although the shots fired into the vampires stopped them, it was not enough to still them completely. 

“I don't suppose you have any silver bullets, do you?” Mycroft called, as Lestrade fired shot after shot into the monster that crawled toward him.

“In my other pants, sorry,” John shouted back, as he swung and missed the vampire in front of him, taking a few steps around it. 

Another vampire, clothed in an old, moldering t-shirt and jeans, came from the darkness, grinning madly. His hands, gnarled and scarred, reached out for John, who ducked and brought one of his blades up through the ribcage of the vampire behind him, piercing its heart. He quickly pushed it ahead of him with the blade of the knife, using the creature's body as a shield. As he tried to move around the body to attack from a different angle, he found his knife stuck in the body of the quickly deteriorating vampire. Giving up after a few attempts to pull it out, he backed away from the body, and rolled to the ground as the other vampire lunged at him. 

“Sherlock, stake!” He called, and looked to his left. The detective, whose scarf had been torn by the vampire that had run at him, immediately threw a piece of the broken crate towards John. Just as he caught it, the vampire was on him, digging its nails into his neck. Tilting his wrist, John brought the piece of splintered wood up, and in seconds felt the body on top of himself go limp. He pushed it off of himself, scrambled to the side to pick up the knife that had been knocked out of his hands, and got to his feet, just as a tall, blond vampire came towards him, eyes blank and his fangs shining in the light. Leaning back with his left shoulder, John released the blade enough to allow it to fall, catching it again by the tip and throwing it forward with as much force as he could. The vampire's mouth went slack as the knife made contact with its chest, killing him before his knees hit the ground.

Lestrade and Sherlock had managed to subdue the vampires that attacked them, backing one into the jagged edge of a broken crate, and forcing the other out of the alley entirely. John, breathing heavily and picking gravel out of his bloodied palms, tongued at his split lip and stared in to the darkness, watching something neither Sherlock nor Lestrade could see. Mycroft moved forward slightly, guarding part of Sherlock with his arm, protective until the end. 

“You've killed my children, how rude of you,” a voice called from the darkness. A man, dressed surprisingly similar to Mycroft, stepped from the darkness. Standing with his hands behind his back and smiling serenely, he observed the four people before him with a look of amusement. The man was middle-aged and short, with silver hair that shone blue in the light, and flipped over a phone in his right hand every so often.

“Thomas,” John said.

“John,” the man replied, tilting his head to the side as he looked over the doctor. “Such a mess you've found yourself in. I see you've brought others.” He glanced at the group standing behind John, who directed the conversation away from them. 

“This is you then, all of the deaths. You're turning humans.”

Thomas's eyes slowly returned to John after lingering on Mycroft for a few moments.“Well, I say _my_ children, I should say those in my care. Newborn vampires are curious creatures, aren't they? So willing to obey their masters.”

“But they're not yours,” John confirmed.

“Of course not. We both know the price of getting attached, don't we?” He smirked.

John paused, then replied icily, “How's your mate these days, Tom?”

The other man's calm expression fractured and he snarled as, with a soft click, his fangs popped out, pressing gently into his pale lower lip.

“Ah, right.”

Although he still knew more than the two men beside him for the moment, Mycroft was now unsure what John was talking about. He gently tapped a cold hand on Lestrade's trembling one, attempting to keep the police officer from pulling his gun again and trying to shoot the vampire. 

“I thought the rockfall at Valcea killed you.”

“I'm afraid you're not that lucky.” Still baring his fangs, Thomas began to pace, walking in a half circle around John. “You should have killed me yourself when you had the chance.”He looked down at his phone again, tapping it with a manicured finger. “Which brings me to our next order of business, it seems. You're getting in my way. Would you care to end this properly, or will you insist on mortal weapons?”

“Not yet,” John answered. “Who's ordering you around these days?”

Thomas touched a fang to one of his lower teeth. “I do not take orders from -”

“Yes you do. Who?”

“If I told you that, dear John, I'd have to kill you before we had a chance to catch up with one another,”he answered, an edge of malice in his voice. “Or, I could just kill your friends to impress upon you the importance of what I'm currently a part of.”

With those words, John ceased to remain still, and began walking towards Thomas. “No.” Another muted click could be heard as John, with his back facing Sherlock, Mycroft, and Lestrade, walked towards the vampire. Thomas, head bent, walked forward, keeping enough distance between himself and John to watch the doctor's movements. 

After the amount of time it took for a single beat of John's heart to pass, the two men were attacking one another. The pair moved more quickly together than the other vampires had, and even John's reaction time seemed to change as he met and blocked the hits that came at him. Anticipating the clawed hand that was coming towards his face, John pushed Thomas's hand out of the way and with his own hand struck the vampire hard enough to turn its head unnaturally far to the side.

While stolen blood issued from his mouth, the vampire chuckled and moved his jaw forward again with a sickening snap.“Welcome back, Captain.”

John growled and, as he turned, a flash of white near his mouth was made visible. The two moved even faster, their movements increasingly vicious, and with the clear intent to kill. While little else that had happened so far made absolute sense to the observers of the fight, they knew enough that they were not to step in. Instead, they flinched whenever John deflected the vampire's attacks a moment too late. Thomas managed to throw off John's measured rhythm as he feigned movement towards Mycroft, and wrapped a pale, strong hand around John's throat. As spots appeared in his eyes, he felt himself slip from consciousness, and into a memory – one regarding his army training. _Oh, right._

With a simple movement, John pressed an arm against the other man's shoulder, braced one of his legs behind one of Thomas's, and pushed in opposite directions, bringing his free hand up to strike the vampire's temple just as he did so. The second he lost his balance, John turned him, forced the other man to his knees, and pulled his head back by the hair, keeping Thomas in position by holding one of his arms back by the wrist. 

“Sorry I took so long,” John said, breath cold on Thomas's skin.

“Go to hell,” the vampire replied. 

John responded by pulling Thomas's head back further, pausing for a moment, and piercing the vampire's colourless neck with sharp fangs. Though the man before him released a savage cry, John continued to cut deeper, leaving a gash not unlike those Mycroft left on his own victims on the body of the vampire. Within a minute, the corpse had been drained, and John released its hair, allowing it to fall to the ground. John breathed heavily, his chest rising and falling, as he gave himself a moment to recover. He closed his eyes, mouth slightly open, and his head tilted, before he looked forward again and stood.

He turned to the three men who were watching him, blood covering his hands and running down his neck. He looked at Sherlock momentarily, and for a second Sherlock swore he saw a flicker of sadness in the doctor's expression. “I should probably explain this, shouldn't I?”


	9. Chapter 9

“ _Friend John, I pity your poor bleeding heart, and I love you the more because it does so bleed. If I could, I would take on myself the burden that you do bear.”_

 

John looked away from the men staring at him and stepped over one of the bodies by his feet as he pulled out his phone, pressing a few numbers.

“Why the hell was I just attacked by four newborn vampires and their caretaker?” He began walking forward, picking up his knives and glancing from left to right while he gestured for the men to follow him,  as he continued speaking. “And you refer anything like that to me. That was the agreement. I'm sure there's someone in the network who knows what's going on.” He paused as the person on the other line spoke, and began to cross the quiet street. “When you know, call me back. I'll be over tomorrow.” He ended the call and put the phone back in his pocket, turning his wrist gingerly and grimacing as he looked down at it.

“Right. First things first, we need a car. We'll need a discreet driver, obviously,”John said, looking at Mycroft, as he held his arms to the side, displaying his blood-covered clothes.

Mycroft nodded, keeping his eyes on the man ahead of him as he pulled out his own phone and turned from the group, speaking softly to one of his employees.

John then turned to face Lestrade, whose expression of shock was tempered only by his years of practice looking calm while working as a police officer.

“Don't call the Yard. Someone in your department is involved in the murders. Lie if you have to about what you were doing here,” John ordered.

“What? Of course no one is, everyone's been working around the clock to find the murderer,” he said, dismayed, stepping forward as his pride in his work overtook his fear.

“A murderer you haven't exactly caught,” John said, still defensive. “How else do you think we were found so fast by a group of people keen on killing us? I don't have bloody vampire GPS attached to me,” he muttered, opening up his phone again as he turned away from the pair of men behind him. Sherlock was unusually silent.

Mycroft returned to the group. “There,” he said, and gestured with an open hand to two dark cars coming around the nearest corner. Their windows tinted, John was immediately grateful that he wouldn't have to slouch in his seat to hide his torn and blood stained clothing.

The group made their war to the vehicles, with Lestrade and Mycroft in one car, and Sherlock and John in the other. For the first time that night, the buzz of adrenaline in John's ears dissipated and he finally found the silence oddly comforting. He leaned back, moaning softly in pain and squeezing his eyes closed as his back shifted against the fabric seat. _Broken rib, fractured twice before. Five ounces, six minutes._

Sherlock, who had remained soundless for the duration of time following the vampire attack and Mycroft hailing the cars, now spoke.

“Fangs,” he said simply, looking directly at John's slightly open mouth. The tips of sharp points were visible within.

“Yeah,” John replied, his voice as neutral as Sherlock's. He ran a thumb over the side of his wrist, glanced out the window, and moved again, this time biting back a gasp. He looked up at the ceiling as he applied pressure to different parts of his left wrist, gently rolling his fingers around the bones. “I'm amazed you haven't noticed them earlier, actually, especially in the morning. They come out a lot when I yawn. And when I'm -” he glanced at Sherlock, cutting himself off as he twisted with his right hand and gritted his teeth as he groaned. _Broken wrist, broken twice, and fractured once before. Two ounces, one minute._ He would finish taking inventory later. For now, Sherlock expected more. John would rather face another set of vampires than try to get out of the car without Sherlock's consent.

“I'm going to explain this, you know,” he said quietly.

“Yes, I know you are,” Sherlock said pointedly, narrowing his eyes as he stared at his companion. “You could start now.”

John shook his head. “I'm just going to have to repeat everything to Mycroft and Lestrade anyways, so you might as well wait.”

“That was military training, what you did in the alley. Not standard, though, but clearly something that has taken years of practice; at the very least, you've done it before,” Sherlock said.

“...Or you could try and deduce everything about me. Be my guest,” John snapped.

Sherlock's mouth closed and he and John stared at each other, both annoyed. For all of their petty arguments, the pair were only rarely genuinely angry with one another. After a moment of silence, Sherlock's natural curiosity overtook his desire to be cross with John.

“Are you a vampire?”

“ _Sherlock_!” John said, exasperated as he turned to face the window, arms crossed. He tried not the flinch as he pressed on his broken rib.

“It's a valid question,” the detective replied.

“Not really, no,” John answered. “You've seen me in the daylight, haven't you?”

“Come to think of it, I can't recall if I have,” Sherlock said, looking at him critically.

John stared back at him, mouth agape, before realizing that Sherlock wasn't serious.

The stress, pain, and tension of the night reached its peak, and was washed away as the pair began laughing, both aware of how unusual their situation was. Finally, John stopped chuckling and shook his head as he sighed.

“I wanted to tell you. All the time. But how would I start that conversation? When? Over dinner? 'Hey, could you pass the salt? Did you know I can kill a vampire at fifty paces with a bow and arrow?' The time just didn't come. After a while, it seemed too late. I became too used to you not knowing, and it was... nice. A nice change.”

“You could have at least mentioned that you may at some point you may kill a supernatural being with your _teeth_ ,” Sherlock said.

“Which, I should point out, you're taking remarkably well,” John said. “That, and learning that vampires exist. I shouldn't have expected you to panic.”

“Quite right,” Sherlock confirmed. “I try to observe and add to my database, not assume I know everything.”

“I'm pretty sure you do assume you know everything most of the time,” John countered.

“Well,” Sherlock said, shrugging, not particularly invested in disagreeing with John. “You just happen to surprise me.”

“Thanks?”

John glanced at the street signs that were passing quickly. They would be home soon.

“You said you were in the military for twelve years, correct?” Sherlock asked, analyzing every line of John's face, remembering ever scar on the doctor's hands. Perhaps he didn't know where each one had come from.

“Stop while you're ahead.”

Sherlock turned away and slouched down in his seat, occasionally throwing a glance at John. John attempted to ignore him, and instead picked at a crack in the lining of the car door. Soon, they were home.

Mycroft and Lestrade waited at the door, which Sherlock reached before John, stepping in quickly and making his way to the stairs. Lestrade, who still kept an eye trained on the army doctor, entered next and followed Sherlock. Before John could enter, he felt a cold hand rest on his elbow, stopping him.

Quietly, Mycroft asked, “Do I need to be given permission to enter?”

Equally softly, John murmured back, “No. That's just the once.” Mycroft nodded and entered alongside John, pulling the door closed behind him.

Once the three other men were in the living room – all standing and looking much worse than they had when they left hours earlier – John entered. “I need to go upstairs. I'll be back in a moment.” He made sure to make eye contact with Sherlock before he left, and assumed Mycroft would have the sense to make tea for the others. On the other hand, he thought to himself as he climbed the steps to his room, Mycroft was just as likely to pick a fight with his brother at the least convenient time possible. He would try to be quick.

His room, upon first glance, appeared clean. It was only when he stepped closer to his closet that the chaos became more noticeable. An old oak dresser, turned to the side, had been disassembled to reveal a panel at the back of it that held a menagerie of weapons. Predominately made out of silver, the various blades and chains caught the light and reflected on the dark walls around them. On the floor lay a collection of guns, which John in his haste had lain out as he tried to decide which would best suit his task. He had chosen his army pistol in the end, but going through his usual routine gave him a sense of comfort. Now, he found himself opening a separate panel above the others to reveal a small refrigerator. Within, neatly arranged and labeled in a fine script were plastic bags – discreet, opaque, and kept on hand at all times, just in case. He had kept the men downstairs for a reason – they didn't need to see this. Not quite yet.

By his calculation, a litre would do it. It would cover the major injuries and probably most of the superficial cuts, but maybe not the deeper ones. It didn't matter – he'd used less on worse injuries. Pulling out one bag, he untwisted the top and held it between his fingers, sitting back on the edge of his bed frame. Toasting the night, he tilted his head back and drank, emptying the bag and leaving only a single drop of blood on the edge of his mouth. Wiping it away, he stood and faced the mirror. His skin was flushed and his breathing was stronger. By the time he made it down the stairs he knew he would no longer be injured, and be able to tackle the more pressing issue of explaining himself to three men who could easily get him jail time.

Keen on not dragging the ordeal out, he pushed his furniture back into place, placing his weapons unceremoniously on the top of his desk. By the time he had left the room and made it to the bottom of the stairs he looked, as expected, relatively untouched. As he entered the living room, it occured to him that he could have changed out of his clothes. At least in his present state he and the others looked equally unclean.

In his absence, Mycroft and Lestrade had found seats on the sofa and chairs, sitting awkwardly near one another, not speaking, and not entirely sure where to look. John was just glad they hadn't started arguing about anything. He could hear the sounds of Sherlock in the kitchen moving bottles and beakers around. The experiments had started already. Once he entered the room, three sets of eyes locked on him and followed him as he walked closer, standing in front of the coffee table. He got the distinct impression that he was supposed to speak first, but thought against it when he noticed the weapons he had dropped on the floor below the stairs had been moved to the desk. He quickly crossed the room and ran a hand over his gun and the silver blades, checking to see that they were still in one piece. He had been in such a rush, so dazed and exhilarated, he couldn't even recall removing the significantly more blood-stained blade from the chest of the vampire he had killed. As the lighter knife caught the light, he noticed a chip missing from the handle. He frowned. At least the gun had come out unscathed.

He heard a cough behind him and turned, nearly hitting Sherlock as he did so.

“Christ,” he muttered, stepping back.

Sherlock, whose arms were crossed across a fresh shirt – John imagined the other one, unsalvageable as it likely was, had been tossed right in the bin – looked down at John with narrow eyes and an expression that screamed 'danger.' “Are you going to explain, or are we going to stare at your gun until _it_ tells us what just happened?”

“Um,” John said, looking past Sherlock at Mycroft and Lestrade. Greg looked as though he had just had a panic attack, and wondered if that was the cause for Sherlock's sudden change in mood. His flatmate's protectiveness came out at the most unexpected times. “I... probably should, yes. Right,” he said, taking a deep breath as he shrugged off his coat, hanging it carefully on the edge of the chair. Despite his care, it was not the coat, but a minor cut in his hand that dropped a small bead of blood to the floor. With a grimace he ran the hand over his jeans and pressed on. “Sit down, Sherlock,” he said and gestured to his friend's usual chair.

He received a raised eyebrow and scoff in response.

Not yet feeling relaxed enough to give in, as he usually would, he stared back at Sherlock. “Do you really want to do this now?” He said, his voice low. He walked closer, and Sherlock bent down instinctively, placing his ear near John's lips. “Two good men have just watched me kill in cold blood. Do you really want to do this now?” He repeated.

Sherlock leaned back slowly, and looked at John, close enough that John could feel the man's breath on his skin. _Slow breathing, heart rate increasing. A visible pulse directly below the left side of the jaw._

John cleared his throat, and backed away, turning to face Lestrade and Mycroft as Sherlock found a seat on the other side of the room. Turning to face away from John, he listened and waited.

“Right. I imagine you have a lot of quetions, but there are some things I need to get out of the way.” He glanced at the time on the clock and began. “First I need to say that what you saw tonight was not something I enjoyed. Killing vampires is not a habit I keep, anyone who knew me back in my army days would be the first to tell you that. Occasionally, though, it's necessary. The vampires you saw tonight weren't...” He searched for the right word.“Whole. They were incomplete. The process of turning someone – correctly – involves the body, mind, and soul of the maker. It takes concentration and a great deal of care in order to get it right, to build a creature that will be able to live through centuries. The mass production that's going on right now isn't producing true vampires – it's just weaponizing walking corpses. Under the control of a superior, they could be directed to kill you, and they would. Without remorse or a second thought, because they've lost so much of who they were in life. I killed them out of mercy, more than anything else, not a desire to hurt anyone.”

“Who is Thomas?” Mycroft asked. “Aside from being a vampire, clearly, of some importance, who seemed rather interested in you.”

John ran a hand over the back of the chair he was standing beside, looking at the frayed threads as his jaw moved. “Thomas is – was – someone I knew years ago. I thought he'd died a few years ago, the last time I was in Romania, tracking a group of vampires who had killed most of a small village. I was wrong. I think the feeling was mutual, actually,” John said, a smile at the edge of his mouth disappearing as soon as it was formed.

“What were you two talking about? He looked like he could rip your throat out,” Lestrade asked from beside a stack of pillows. Upon finding out vampires existed and wanted him dead, he still cared enough about Mrs. Hudson to keep her cushions from becoming covered with blood.

John let his hand fall to his side. “It's a long story. I think he wanted revenge.”

“Revenge for what?”

John met Lestrade's eyes and was silent, returning his hand to the chair before turning away.

“Something irrelevant,” he replied, shaking his head. “Not something you need to know now.” Out of habit John wandered towards the window and looked out, glancing up and down the street. A war was building, and there was not even so much as a whisper to be heard on the deserted street. “I'm not sure where to start,” he said quietly, speaking towards the glass.

“You should start with tonight,” Sherlock said from across the room, sounding, by all accounts, bored.

“Actually, starting with the fangs would be good,” Lestrade said, crossing his arms as he leaned back in his chair. “I mean, _vampires,_ ” he said, spreading his hands apart as though to illustrate the magnitude of such a revelation.

“Speaking of,” John said, muttering. He turned to the side, exhaled slowly, and with a click the fangs retracted. He turned back to the group, taking a step forward. “Sorry. It's harder to control under stress.”Coming within a few feet of Lestrade, he noticed the detective inspector flinch, and immediately backed away.

“Sorry,” he said softly again. “Now. Will you agree not to interrupt me too much and let me explain everything to you at once? I really don't want to have to go through it again,” he asked.

The detective inspector nodded, while neither Holmes made any sort of movement. John walked around the chair he had been pacing behind and sat down on the edge of it, glancing at Sherlock before he spoke, but keeping most of his focus on the others.

“There are vampires in the world, there have been for many years,” he began. “They've been written about by nearly every culture, including ours. About a hundred years ago, the first vampire came to London. Even then, the country was defended – in much the same way you saw tonight – by people who knew the threat that had come for them, and how to fight it. Specifically, these people were Arthur Holmwood, Quincey Morris, John Seward, the Harkers, and Abraham Van Helsing.”

Mycroft raised a hand, and John stopped speaking. “I realize your request to avoid interrupting was given so recently, but are you speaking about the characters of _Dracula_?”

“Yes,” John said.

“They're fictional,” Mycroft replied, in what John imagined was probably the most strained, 'pointing out the obvious' tone of voice the Holmes had ever had to use.

“Every story has some truth to it,” John said, shrugging. “Some more than others. The story was published by a hunter with the right connections.”

Mycroft hummed. “Assuming it's not a work of fiction, why write an account of a vampire hunt?”

“To put the thought of the undead in the consciousness of society.” John leaned back and moved his hands as he spoke. “The best defence against vampires has always been knowledge, and knowing how to protect yourself. Once the threat of the undead reached England, it was agreed that the country, those the hunters had vowed to protect, had to at least know what would be coming for them. They assumed, rightly so, that as the world grew and people spread out, the vampires would as well, and areas that once were free of the undead – like England – would soon have more than it could handle. They also agreed that this would mean a new manner of hunting would be necessary. One that focused not on hunting all vampires, but those who seemed intent on causing destruction and death. It was Abraham's personal belief that, as time wore on, a balance could be struck, and humans and vampires could live in peace.”

“Chasing a vampire back to Transylvania, a shipwreck, stakes and holy wafers, that all happened?” Lestrade asked, pulling what he could remember about the book from the recesses of his memory.

“Yes,” John answered. “Parts of it were pieced together from various hunts, but the basic story was still there. I'm telling you this because I think it will be easier for all of you to grasp how long vampires have been living among you, and just how dangerous they are, if you have a basic understanding of how they operate.”

“Why haven't I heard of any of these 'hunters'? Surely someone would have noticed them as time wore on and the novel became more well-known.”

“That was just it - the story got bigger. Certain names became too recognizable. It's impossible to carry on a career when everywhere you turn, someone thinks you seem familiar. You see, as long as vampires have existed, vampire hunters have as well, and one of the changes made in the story was the surprise of the people hunting Dracula that supernatural beings like vampires could exist. That was the most obvious lie; everyone who tracked him down was very well-practiced, and had made a career out of hunting. The Harkers actually got married while they were in the Alps trying to find an Old One.” He glanced at the window, eyes lingering on the raindrops that were hitting the glass. He wasn't sure when it had started. He resumed looking at the group, which still seemed equal parts unsure and anxious.

“What does this have to do with you?” Sherlock asked, arms crossed. John was surprised he wasn't tapping his foot yet out of sheer impatience.

“I'm getting there,” John assured him. “As legend has it, Van Helsing came from a family that hunted the very first vampire. Thousands of years of years of contact with the undead, rewriting the DNA of Abraham's ancestors, adapting them to the task of hunting vampires. The surviving four families involved in the death of Dracula changed their names, as a way to gain back some level of anonymity, and let them continue to hunt the undead; my family was among them. We've been using Watson for a few generations now, since it attracts less attention, but for years before that it was something else.”

He paused. There were some secrets he was far too used to keeping.

“Van Helsing.”

The only person who moved was Sherlock, who leaned forward, his hands forming a steeple under his chin as a smirk inadvertently flitted across his face. Every puzzle came together eventually.

“Is that why you have the fangs?” Lestrade said, pointing at John's mouth, which now appeared human and normal.

John smiled. "No."

Lestrade looked slightly put out.

John looked at his hands as he continued to speak. "No, it's definitely just a legend. What I'm trying to get at is that hunting the undead for god knows how many centuries has put my family in close contact with vampires. As you may have noticed, vampires are inherently vengeful creatures, and can hold a grudge for decades. The Van Helsings are the greatest enemies of vampires as a whole, and can count nearly every Old One and coven leader as an opponent.

"The problem with having enemies that will never die is that they can wait until you're at your weakest; they can bide their time, obsess over whatever it is you've done to wrong them, until it consumes them. Then they act. Sometimes that time is in the middle of a war, sometimes it's the single night you forget to sleep with a stake or a rosary - or maybe it's the night your wife goes into labour."

No one in the group dared to speak. Mycroft, without a heartbeat or breath to disturb him, was more still than anyone else.

“My dad spent most of his life hunting vampires, and he met my mum when he was in his twenties, at the height of his hunting career. He was more vicious then, less merciful – everyone is when they first start out. The first time you stake someone that's spent the night trying to kill you, it's like an instant hit of adrenaline. It isn't until you get older that you begin to notice the body count you've racked up. They had sworn off having kids altogether, knowing how stressful their jobs were, but then... Well, Harry happened. She traveled with my parents for the first five years of her life, until my mum became pregnant with me. Up until that point, my dad had more or less forgotten about the enemies he had made. He spent most of his time keeping vampire-human relations under control and tending to his medical practice. He only ever joined the front line when a major issue arose, or a council meeting was called.” He noticed a change in Sherlock's expression, but didn't elaborate.

“About two hours before dawn on what was supposed to be a normal day, my mum was attacked as she came home from a staff party that ran late. My dad couldn't protect her, not in the second it took for the vampire to drag her down the road and out of sight. By the time my dad found her, she was nearly gone, but the vampire had waited for him to come. He stayed crouched above her until my dad could see his smile, and then he was gone. And my dad knew. The turning process had started, and that was the vampire's plan – to make the wife of one of the most feared hunters a vampire herself, leaving it just long enough that if my father tried to undo it, she would die. As these things happen, in her last spasms of life she had started to give birth to me, and just after dawn broke, she died, and I arrived.”

“Your mother is...?” Lestrade asked

“A vampire. As far as anyone in my family can figure, I underwent about half the turning process. I'm first human to come out of it alive, actually.”John smiled and shook his head. “Which makes me...” He trailed off, and Sherlock spoke for him.

“Half vampire.” Sherlock eyed his companion as he contemplated everything he had heard that night. Already information was rearranging itself in his mind, and past memories were being updated to reflect what he knew now.

John nodded, looking back at Sherlock.

“So that's the fangs sorted, then,”Lestrade said, a bit weakly as the amount of information he had just acquired fully hit him.

“How were you trained to fight that way?”Sherlock asked, the question that had been on his mind the entire evening coming out once again.

John looked back at him, then at the other men, listening to the seconds on the clock tick by before he answered. “We can discuss this if you really want to one day, but at the moment we have other things to take care of.”

“The murders aren't going to end now that you've killed Thomas, are they?”Lestrade asked, pinching the bridge of his nose.

John shook his head. “No. He wasn't leading the murders, though I'm sure he enjoyed the mayhem. He's always been more of a henchman. We'll need help.”

“Tonight?” Sherlock asked.

John checked the time on his blood-spattered phone. “Tomorrow. All of us are going to need to get as much sleep as we can get. It could be our last chance for a while.”

Lestrade glanced towards the door, but quickly returned his gaze to John. “Are we in danger?”

Before John could speak, Sherlock interrupted. “If we're under attack by vampires, we have until dusk to collect ourselves and plan our strategy for retaliation.”He put a hand behind his head as he leaned back on his chair, and waved with the other hand, adding, “or so I imagine.”

“Basically,” John said, “If you get back here before five, we'll be able to figure out what we're going to do next. Mycroft can take you back to your house, then he can go to his own,” he said, looking directly at the older man as he gave the order. Mycroft nodded, aware of the hour – it was close enough to dawn that he could feel his skin prickling – and stood, tapping the keys of his phone and gesturing for the DI to walk in front of him.

“Five?” Lestrade confirmed, looking at John, but not moving.

“Yes.”

“And we're really not going to get anything else out of you tonight?”

“No,” John said firmly.

Lestrade heaved a sigh as he left the room, muttering about 'all the damn vampires,' followed by Mycroft who nodded at John. Although he would never say it, he was thankful that the doctor had been so discreet about his condition.

John stood in front of his chair, unmoving, as he listened to the doors a floor below him close. All that remained in the room was himself, Sherlock, and a silence broken only by the clock, and the creak of floorboards as Sherlock stood up.

“You've permanently scarred Lestrade,” he said, moving to sit at the coffee table across from John.

The older man chuckled. “He'll live. You just find a new normal. Everyone does.”

The pair was rarely completely silent together, but at that moment, they only watched the rain fall, shimmering before the orange streetlights, and running down the windowpanes.

“I really though it was a good sign, when I moved in with you,” John said quietly, shaking his head as he shut his phone off. “Your name – what were the chances? I thought it would have been good luck.”

“What about it?” Sherlock asked.

“My family wasn't the only one that changed its name. The Harker family did as well.”

“To what?”

John turned from the window and leaned back on the chair across from Sherlock. “To Holmes.”


	10. Chapter 10

“ _This battle is but begun and in the end we shall win.”_

 

Before Sherlock could acknowledge what John had said, the doctor had stood again, and made his way to the kitchen. It didn't matter to Sherlock – he wouldn't have been able to qualify his flatmate's statement anyways. His mum was the only blood relative he knew that was familiar with the Holmes family history, and she had never been particularly forthcoming about it. He moved to follow John, stepping over an ottoman and rotating his shoulder, which was sore from the evening's earlier activities.

“Tea?” John asked from beside the kettle, where he was putting an overly large stack of biscuits on a plate.

“Yes,” Sherlock answered, taking the seat that faced John. The doctor worked quickly, and in a few minutes brought over the tea and the food, sitting across from Sherlock. The pair sat in silence as they sipped their tea, before Sherlock abruptly put his cup down and tossed the rest of a custard cream in his mouth. As he chewed, he observed John, then spoke.

“How long could you survive on it?”

“About three months,” John said, biting into a shortbread biscuit. “After that I start looking a bit ill. I get fairly vicious too, actually. I'm assuming you don't mean Mrs. Hudson's baking.”

“I don't. You couldn't survive for three months on her biscuits.”

“No, though I'm tempted to try,” John said, looking down at the plate of cookies, of which he had already devoured close to a dozen.

“You wouldn't have the fangs if you didn't drink blood,” Sherlock noted.

“No, I guess not. I don't have to, but...”He sighed. “It's a nice supplement. Focuses me, a bit. I'm at my peak when I consume it regularly, but that's never really been an option.”

“You know this from experience,” Sherlock stated, an eyebrow raising as he ran through the implications of this. The doctor still managed to find new ways to surprise him.

John shrugged. “Army days. I had to go under the radar for an assignment once or twice.” He noticed the expression on Sherlock's face. “Don't give me that look. You know I'll explain it later.”

A muscle near Sherlock's jaw moved, and the detective finally picked up his mug and took a sip. “If this is revenge for poisoning you in Dartmoor, I will not be impressed.”

John laughed. “Well, you said it, not me. Maybe that's the reason behind everything after all.”After a few moments, John finished his tea and spoke tentatively. “Speaking of blood...”

“Hm?”

“I need to stop by Bart's to pick up some supplies. Blood, some syringes, odds and ends.”

“I had a feeling your instruction to 'get some rest' applied only to my brother and Lestrade.”

John brushed some crumbs off his leg.“We don't have time to waste. Everyone knows where we live. After tonight, everyone involved in whatever it is we've stumbled on to is going to be targeting us.”He looked at Sherlock properly for the first time in hours, noticing the dark dirt on his trousers, and the red marks on his wrists; had a vampire gotten ahold of him? He couldn't remember. Already it was a bit of a blur. “We could probably both go for a shower first, though.”

“You could,” Sherlock said, finishing off his tea as well. “Have you looked in a mirror yet?”

John ran a hand through his hair and found parts of it spiked with blood. He leaned to the side and caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window. “Christ,” he said. “No wonder Greg didn't want me near him.”

Sherlock stood and shrugged his suit jacket off. “Try not to bite him and I imagine he'll get over it.”

“I'll do my best,” John said, pushing his mug away from him. “Can you be ready to go in half an hour?”

Sherlock answered by plugging his phone in and leaving for his room, while John quickly moved their dishes to the sink. Within twenty minutes, both men were showered, and dressed in clothes that were covered in significantly less dried blood. 

Holding the crossbow that had been left downstairs, John waited at the door. Sherlock paused as he pulled on his coat. “Decided against the gun, then?”

John looked down, moving his thumb along the polished wood. “I'll have better luck with this.”John opened the door and with gestured with an open hand. “After you.”

“I'm sure it won't attract any attention,” he said, smirking, but walking through the open door nonetheless.

John called for a cab as Sherlock tied his scarf around his neck. After a brief wait, and a short ride to a street next to the hospital, the pair exited the vehicle. Trying to stay in the shadows, they walked as inconspicuously as they could to a dark, empty service entrance. Before John could try forcing the door open, Sherlock had removed a case of lock picking equipment from his pocket, and moved the door handle around a bit as he fiddled with the small tools.  
“You came prepared,” John remarked, and Sherlock turned the handle, smiling smugly as he unlatched the door with click. 

“Always.”

Once inside, John took the lead, and chose the nearest staircase, taking it a few floors up. The storeroom John brought them to was, like the rest of the deserted floor, quiet. He gathered as many medical supplies as he could fit into his pockets, occasionally asking Sherlock to find a certain medicine or two. Once he had double-checked that he had everything he could need, John made his way to the door.

“What now?” Sherlock asked.

“Blood,” John replied, and looked through the window of the door at the dimly lit hall. “We're on the, what? West side of the third floor?”He opened the door and looked both ways, settling on pointing towards the left. “Fastest way to the basement should be that way.”

“Why do we need blood?” Sherlock asked, following John and slipping a small blue bottle into his pocket.

“I'm out,” John answered simply. Sherlock didn't question him. If he had, he would have learned that John kept his personal fridge stocked with deliveries from a discreet medical supply service. However, he couldn’t wait for the next shipment.

The two quickly made their way to the elevator, with Sherlock occasionally pulling John into door frames when a nurse or doctor would walk by. By the time they reached the service elevator, John was nearly out of breath. “I think my shoulder's going to be permanently bruised thanks to you.”He laughed. “I don't think I've had so much fun doing something as vaguely illegal as this in years.”

A rare smile appeared on Sherlock's face, and he pressed a button labeled B1. “There is really no consistency as far as the pastimes you enjoy go. I'm genuinely confused.”

“No, you're not,” John replied, and stepped forward as the steel doors opened. 

John led Sherlock, who walked at his side, through the maze of dark halls and plain rooms, stopping only once to run a security card through a checkpoint. Sherlock took the plastic card from his free hand as John punched in a five-digit code. He looked at the face of the man whose photograph took up a small square in the corner of the ID. “Harold Green?”He asked.

“Part of the hunter network. He's a doctor here,” John said, opening the heavy door and letting Sherlock in, allowing it to fall with a resounding thud. “He never needs to come down here, so he passed it along to me.”

Sherlock looked around. Though the walls didn't bear any signs, it was clear where they were. “They keep the bodies that way, do they not?” Sherlock asked, pointing a pale finger in the direction of a series of lights that were turned on at the end of the hall. 

“Yeah,” John confirmed. “Extra storage, I suppose. We're here,” he said, turning to a pale blue door. Testing the handle to see that it was unlocked, he pushed forward and entered, running a hand over the wall until he reached the light switch. Under the bright lights, Sherlock could see a series of plain, empty steel tables and sinks, as well as a row of large refrigerators at the end of the room. After placing his crossbow on a table by the door, John made his way over to the far side of the room, and drummed his fingertips on the thick glass that formed the face of one of the fridges. 

“What would you say? O+? O's not that bad,” John mused before opening the door and pulling out a few plastic bags, setting them behind him. Sherlock reached above the refrigerators into a cabinet and pulled out a small plastic cooler, handing it to the doctor. 

“I assume you'll need this?”

“Thanks,” John answered, arranging the blood and sliding the container closed. “It should be fine until we get home.”

At that moment Sherlock noticed John stiffen, and stepped back as the doctor closed his eyes and tensed his shoulders. Opening them quickly, John moved to place an arm in front of Sherlock, pushing him behind the table and standing in front of him.

“What are you doing?”Sherlock asked, looking down at the hand that rested softly on his hip.  _Interesting_ .

“Do you hear that?” 

Sherlock paused and listened, but didn't hear anything. He was beginning to find being a step behind his friend unusually annoying. “No, O Fanged One, I'm afraid I can't. What do  _you_ hear?”

John raised a finger. “That,” he whispered. Sherlock could now hear it too. In the distance, coming towards the door they had left open, was the scraping noise of a single, sharp point dragging along the steel panels of the hallway. A fingernail.

“It's six o'clock,” Sherlock murmured, glancing at his phone. He held it out to John, who shook his head.

“Almost sunrise,”he confirmed. Knowing something was wrong, he glanced around the room in time to notice that he had left his weapon on the desk at the far end of the room. Just as he stepped forward, he was pulled back by Sherlock, whose eyes remained locked on the doorway. Looking up, he saw the figure enter.

With eyes rimmed in red, and the sunken appearance John knew signified a vampire that hadn't fed in far too long, the creature slowly walked forward. Its head tilted to the side and its yellowing teeth dripping bloody saliva, the creature observed John and Sherlock, who were both stepping as far towards the back of the room as they could.

“Suggestions?” Sherlock asked from behind John as the pair glanced around quickly for something to defend themselves with.

“Stop,” John said, commanding the vampire before him to cease moving as he raised a hand. “Who created you? Who are you?”

The mouth of the vampire twisted into a horrifying smile as it remained silent, stepping closer forward. 

“Diplomacy,” Sherlock said flatly.

“It was worth a try,” John said as he took a step back. There was nothing nearby for him to use. Although he was confident he could subdue the vampire without a weapon, it would be at a greater cost than it had been to fight Thomas. Defending himself in an alleyway was relatively safe, all things considered; in the confined laboratory, his movements would risk not only his own safety, but Sherlock's. He clenched a fist as he readied himself to push Sherlock to the side, while the vampire stopped moving and narrowed its eyes, gazing hungrily at John's throat.

Just as the creature, fangs bared, prepared to attack, its eyes fell back in its head. It staggered and lost its balance as blood began to run down its shirt. Visible through its chest, passing directly through the heart, was the tip of a silver bolt.

“ _Oh_ ,” they heard a soft voice say from behind the vampire, which promptly fell to the floor. Behind it stood Molly Hooper, her white lab coat stained with a few drops of blood.

“Molly?” Sherlock asked as the timid pathologist lowered the crossbow, which appeared comically oversized in her small hands.

“That was – it had – it was trying to kill you, wasn't it?” She asked, looking between Sherlock and John for an answer.

“Yes, it was,” John said, walking over the body, which was quickly expelling dark, stagnant blood. He lifted the crossbow from Molly's hands, setting it aside. Before he could say anything else to her, Sherlock was at his side, pulling her away from him, and turning her so she wasn't facing the vampire's body.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, I'm fine,” she said quickly, looking over her shoulder at the body. “I was down the hall, I had to come in early today to finish up some projects, then I heard that noise down here... That horrible screeching. What's going on? What was that?”

“A vampire,” Sherlock answered without a hint of humour in his voice. 

Molly looked at John, who was glancing around the room, wondering if anything else was going to jump out at them. “A vampire?”

Sherlock sighed. “I don't see why it would be any more believable coming from him than it would be from me.”

“A vampire,” she said again, softer this time as she looked at Sherlock.

“Yes,” he confirmed, also speaking quieter. 

“Thank you,” John replied. “For what you did. I wasn't expecting anything to come for us this close to dawn. Was that the first person you've ever... killed?” He was unsure if implying that Molly was a murderer was quite the right approach to take.

“Yes, I suppose so,” Molly replied, turning completely to face the body on the ground. A line of blood, following the path of the uneven floor, crept closer to them. 

“Will you be able to deal with this? I have friends you could talk to if you like, they could help you wrap your head around what just happened,” John offered.

“I've seen plenty of dead bodies,” she said firmly, straightening up instinctively. “Death doesn't bother me. It's the violence – the fact you want me to believe that I was just attacked by a _vampire_ – that I'm taking a bit of an issue with.”

“It makes a bit more sense than us just hanging around a blood bank for the hell of it, doesn't it?”

Molly looked at the door to the refrigerator, which was still ajar, and sighed. “I guess. Are you stealing blood?”

“Borrowing,” he said at the same moment as Sherlock. 

Sherlock pushed the door closed and leaned on it. “Stealing may be the right word, on second thought. We didn't really intend to return it. We promise to donate sometime soon, though.”

John smiled uncomfortably. “Sorry.” He stepped past Molly and looked into the hall, then returned to group. “What I'd really like to know is how it got in.”

The colour drained from Molly's face. “Oh, God.”

“What?” Sherlock asked, immediately analyzing every part of her expression.

“One of the doors of the body cabinet in the morgue was open when I came back,” she said quietly. The realization hit Sherlock before it did John. 

“Brilliant,” he said, looking back at the corpse on the floor. As John realized what she meant, he looked up at Sherlock, who added, “In the worst possible way?” To the end of his exclamation. He was beginning to predict when John was about to mutter 'not good.'

“Someone's planning ahead,”John said, and walked back towards the body, turning it over hesitantly, trying not to get any more of the blood on him. Sherlock walked around to the other side and knelt down. “Sending a vampire to wait for us at the morgue,”he said, “That seems bad.”

“On the contrary. It's excellent news,” Sherlock said, looking up and smiling dangerously at his friend. “Someone thinks you're a threat.”John looked back to the body and pointed to the lapel closest to Sherlock.

“What is that?”He asked, gesturing to a piece of white paper that stuck out near the top of the pocket.

Sherlock, with a gloved hand, pulled out a small piece of paper. On it, in neat, red script, was the number fourteen.

“Fourteen bodies?” John said aloud, wondering if he miscounted.

“Fourteen days until the next new moon,”Sherlock said. “Whoever sent this one knew its messenger would be killed. They just needed to pass the number along.” 

“What's happening on the new moon?”Molly asked, and the men looked up at her from beside the body. 

“You know all the bodies that have come in lately?” John asked as he stood. 

Molly looked down at the rapidly decaying body of the vampire on the floor and up to John again. “ _Really_?”

“Vampire attacks on the new moon and the full moon,” John confirmed. “Don't ask us why, we're not quite there yet,” he said as he rubbed an eye with the back of his hand.

Molly touched the blood on her lab coat and rubbed it between her fingers. “What should we do about this?” She asked, looking down at the body.

“Leave it,” Sherlock said, standing up. 

“Someone will notice all this blood.”

“Yes, but there aren't many alternatives. Unless John has a friend in his network who can deal with this.”

“Network?” Molly asked.

“I'll see what I can do,” John said, glancing at his phone as he pulled it out. Over the doctor's shoulder, Sherlock saw that he had received multiple texts from numbers he didn't recognize. He shut off the mobile and turned.

“We should go. We can drop you off at home, Molly – it's probably a good idea if you stay there for a few awhile. Sherlock's brother and Lestrade are joining us, we're going to try and sort this out tomorrow night.”

“And you want me to go home?” She confirmed.

“Yes,” John answered.

“Like hell I am,” Molly said loudly, causing both John and Sherlock to stop moving. She stared John directly in the eyes. “I'm involved now. You're stuck with me. Whatever plan you have, I'm not going to sit back and watch you get yourselves killed.”

John looked back at her, expressionless, for a moment. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Molly said, crossing her arms and nodding, her eyebrows meeting as she glanced at her shoes. She was expecting more of a fight.

“You could die,” John warned.

“I did figure that,” she answered.

“All right,” John said, nodding. “If you're going to be joining us, you might as well hear the whole story. We're using Baker Street as our home base - you can stay in Sherlock's room.” Before the detective could argue, he pushed the door further open. “On a more serious note, we really should go. We're sitting ducks in case any of your other corpses come to life.” Molly and John, his crossbow in hand, exited the room.

Sherlock glanced back at the vampire, shut off the light, and followed.


	11. Chapter 11

“ _What is here told... may be the beginning of the end to you and me and many another, or it may sound the knell of the undead who walk the earth.”_

 

Sherlock took a long, slow drag on his cigarette. The sun rose lazily, chasing away the darkness of the streets below. ' _We die to each other daily_ ,' recited a dull voice from the depths of his memory. He was always surprised what his mind chose to remember – he distinctly recalled deleting the musings of poets. Evidently it hadn't worked. It seemed to be developing into a problem in recent months, and when he thought about it – when he had time to – he worried that he would lose room for more valuable thoughts. Nevertheless, despite his conscious protestations, in the middle of a case, he would find himself suddenly contemplating the shape of the moon, or a detailed recipe for scones. A math equation, the Canadian national anthem. _John's favourite breakfast. His laugh, his voice in the morning, his... STOP._

He breathed in again and didn't breathe out until his lungs began to burn. He had crawled out on to the fire escape, and was just beginning to feel the cold of the metal he was leaning against reach him. A week ago, he had found himself in this very spot. For different reasons, of course; he had left an experiment smoking on the stove, and John made him move it outside. A week ago, the thought of vampires never crossed his mind, and were merely a story used to frighten children. A week ago his best friend had been human.

Sort of.

Now he stayed outside, chilled by the morning air, and could hear John walking around inside the flat. From the frequency of the steps and the sounds in the kitchen, Sherlock could tell John was making an effort to clean up, clearing up as much of the clutter in the sitting room as he could, in order to make room for the collection of weapons that was gradually making its way downstairs. Sherlock couldn't remember how long he had been sitting there, but realized it was enough time that he should come in shortly, or risk being frowned at by John.

John himself knew where Sherlock was, but he didn't intend to disturb him or demand he come inside. He felt guilty enough about the burden he had put on his friend, but hadn't yet managed to string together the right set of words that would fully express what he was thinking. He didn't even know if Sherlock _wanted_ to talk to him. Before he could dwell on that thought further, the detective had crawled in, his long limbs entering the flat awkwardly before his head did. 

“Hey,” John said, putting down the pen he was holding.

Sherlock nodded at the map behind him. “That's what you've been working on for the last few weeks, haven't you?” 

“Months,” John said, turning to look at it. “Not because of these murders specifically. I like to keep track of things. Just in case.”

Sherlock walked over and looked at the marks on the map, eventually perching himself on the edge of a chair to analyze it further. John sat down as well and pretended to thumb through a magazine, watching Sherlock out of the corner of his eye.

“Cemeteries and churches,” Sherlock said, and left the chair, walking towards the map. When he got close to it, he ran his fingers along a few of the streets and then looked to John for confirmation. “Hallowed ground.”

John nodded. 

Sherlock chuckled. “I have a new theory.”

“Yeah?” John asked. 

“This is a plot to keep me busy,”Sherlock answered, turning to face John with his arms crossed across his chest.

John chuckled.“How do you figure?”

“Cemeteries, mysterious notes, and plenty of murders, all of which have occurred under vaguely unbelievable circumstances. It's like an elaborate Christmas present.”

“I'm afraid you're going to be disappointed, then,” John said, pushing aside a stack of papers on the table in front of him. “As it so happens, I was planning on buying you a sweater.”

“Oh, god,” Sherlock moaned, rolling his eyes and falling back into his chair. He crossed his legs at the ankle and stared at John. “You can't be trusted with sweaters.”

“It would have been _lovely_ ,” John replied jokingly. “Mrs. Hudson could have sewn little tassels on it.”

John smiled for a moment at Sherlock's chuckles, then added, “Oh, I got that vampire in the morgue sorted out.”Sherlock gave him a strange look. “Speaking about... pleasant surprises.” He paused. “That was not my best segue.”

“No,” Sherlock agreed. “Though I am intrigued. Was it fixed by your network?” He said, emphasizing the last word with a bit of bitterness. He still felt left in the dark. 

John sighed, shook his head, and reached for the pen he had put down, uncapping it as he leaned back in his chair. “I had a colleague of mine at the hospital remove the clothes and what was left of the body. I've been told it just looks like someone dropped a bag of blood. Not great, but it won't raise as many questions as a vampire corpse. So, that's one sorted. I think Molly's finally fallen asleep, too – I talked to her a bit, explained vampires and the murders, and the war, that whole story.”

Sherlock brushed a piece of dust from his jacket. “The war? As I recall, you still haven't informed me about that subject.” 

“No,” John agreed. “But I know that I'll have to. I haven't forgotten. I'm going to meet someone I served with this evening, actually. An old friend of mine.”John's phone, which sat on the coffee table, vibrated quietly as though to confirm this. “I'm hoping a meeting will be able to shed some light on some of the things that have happened in the last twenty-four hours.”

“What's his name?”

“Jane,” John answered. “She's terrifying. You'll like her.”

“I'm sure. What else do we have to do today?”

“Right now...” John surveyed the maps in front of him, and the guns on the table. Everything was in order, and there wasn't much he could do until nightfall. “Nothing, I guess. Rest a bit, maybe.”

“Do you think you'll be able to do that?” 

John shrugged. “If killing vampires was what kept me up at night, I'd never get any sleep. I'll be fine.”

“I plan to run some tests on the blood samples, I feel it may be more useful now, knowing what they're from. Is there anything else I can do?” Sherlock asked.

“Pack a bag, I suppose,” John said. “That would be good. Just in case.”

Sherlock nodded. “I'll wake you.”He stood and walked to the kitchen, picking up a nearby stack of papers, and seeming to have already forgotten about John. The doctor's eyes followed him, and after a moment he allowed himself to shut them, leaning back into the couch cushion. He moved into a more comfortable position, though he remained curled defensively, with his arms across his chest, and felt himself drift off.

-

The sun beat down on him, scalding him, like a fire running through his veins. But it wasn't day – it couldn't be – and as he raised his head, John could see only the wall of fire, and the shapes of burned buildings behind it. He tried to move forward, to crawl away, but was stopped by a sudden, excruciating pain in his shoulder. Shot? Or bit? One of the two, but he couldn't be sure. Either way, he could feel the blood pouring from him, see it staining the sand beneath him. His hands, sticky with blood – _not your own, not your own, so much blood, so many dead_ – clawed at the ground ahead of him as he tried to pull himself forward, jagged bolts of pain running across his chest and through his arms. 

In the distance, something exploded, and small pieces of metal rained down on him, catching in his hair and scalding his hands as he attempted to protect his face. He had to move, but found himself paralyzed by the sting of another wound, a gash in his side from one of the fragments of glass that had been blown out in the earlier explosion. Unable to move, to think, he could see his vision blur and his thoughts slow, just as a man crouched in front of him. The man, illuminated by the red and gold lights of the flames that flickered in front of him, smiled at John, and was highlighted for a moment by the bright light of another explosion. Snarling, almost inhuman, he met the army doctor's eyes with his own bright blue ones and spoke. “ _This is your fault_.”

As the dream faded, John heard his own screaming before he even opened his eyes. Thrown back suddenly into wakefulness, he looked ahead of himself, and met a different pair of blue eyes, which he immediately moved away from, panting with fear. These eyes were calmer, less threatening, and as John got his bearings he relaxed. He looked at Sherlock and closed his moth, moving his jaw a bit. 

“Sorry,” he said, out of breath.

“Not your fault,” Sherlock replied. “What did you dream of?”

John didn't answer.

“You said it again. _Sebastian_. Yelled it before you woke up. You were thrashing around in your sleep.”

“Right, sorry,” he said, apologizing again, and sitting up, ignoring Sherlock's questions. “What time is it?”

Sherlock paused, and glanced up at the wall clock. “Four thirty.”

“Great,” John said, rubbing his eyes. “Fine. We should get everything together, then, before everyone shows up.”

“Fair enough.” Sherlock stood and walked back towards the kitchen quickly, a bit annoyed, but aware that sunset was fast approaching.

Mindful of this fact, the pair received a knock on the door from Lestrade a quarter of an hour later, just as Molly exited Sherlock's room. By the time the sun had fallen, she and Sherlock were fully engrossed in the results of his more recent testing on the blood, and were comparing it with the notes on her own laptop that she kept about the bodies she analyzed in the morgue. 

“Where's Sherlock's brother?” Lestrade asked John, who was looking out the window.

“Give him a moment,” John answered, arms crossed as he looked up and down the street. He had sworn he had heard something earlier – just a shuffle on a faraway rooftop – but he wasn't sure, and wanted to continue listening.

“It's been dark for five minutes,” Lestrade continued. “Isn't he usually more on time than this?”

“Wait,” John answered. Ten anxious minutes after that, a car pulled up, and let out the older Holmes. Sherlock and Molly paused in their analysis and looked up as he walked up the stairs and nodded towards the group.

“Sorry I'm late.”

“Not a problem,” John answered, nodding back towards him.

“So,” he said, getting everyone's attention. “We don't have much time. We should get started.”

“What's the plan?” Greg asked, sitting on the arm of a chair. Molly walked towards the living room and Sherlock immediately began closing their computers down and packing them into bags with the rest of his papers and journals. 

“We're going to see a friend of mine, from the military,” John said, suddenly reminded of giving orders and explaining plans so many years ago. It didn't feel very different. “I've mentioned this to Sherlock. I have the address to the bar we're meeting at, and hopefully whatever she tells me will help us figure out what we're going to do next. Obviously this is time sensitive so we're going to try and move as safely and quickly as we can. I've packed enough weapons for all of us, and I'm counting on all of you to shoot quickly and with relatively good aim. Any questions?”

“You haven't invited a sixth guest to this meeting, have you, John?” Mycroft asked, looking up. 

John stopped the absent swaying he was doing as he spoke and looked and Mycroft in confusion.“Er, no.”

“Then who is that?” He murmured, a single finger pointed up. 

John listened. The sound of footsteps, unmistakeable in the silent flat, thumped overhead. “Fuck.” He muttered quietly. 

Sherlock, apparently unconcerned, glanced at his watch. “We should leave now. Lestrade, leave the way,” he said, throwing a hand towards the door. 

Lestrade stared at him as though he had turned green. “A vampire has just broken in and _you want to leave_?” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes, terrible. Not important. John, do you remember when Moriarty put a bomb in the flat across the road from us?”

“Yes?” John said, looking away from the ceiling. “The one that blew out half our windows?”

“Yes, that,” Sherlock answered. “Shall we?” He gestured for the door again, and Mycroft started walking towards it.

Before it occurred to John what Sherlock meant, he started walking quickly too, followed by the others. 

“You aren't... blowing it up again, are you?” John asked, glancing at the living room.

“I'm confident the chief of police won't try to arrest us, if that helps any,”Sherlock said, staring pointedly at Lestrade, who just sighed heavily. “See? He's fine with it. I haven't left anything sensitive to the case. Let's go.”

As the group hurried down the stairs, John locked the door and ran after them, muttering about the security deposit as he went. Once through the door, he saw Sherlock pull something from his coat and, with what appeared to be the press of a button, explosives near the edges of the windows went off, leaving a large cloud of grey smoke in their wake. 

“That should do it,” Lestrade said, feeling rather guilty about how impressed he was. 

“We need to go,” John said simply, as distant sirens began to fill the air. Mycroft gestured to his car and in moments the group was off.

-

Jane gently tilted the glass she held, watching as the woman before her cleared away pieces of smudged paper and empty, red-rimmed glasses. The remains of a day spent trying to plan an assault on an invisible enemy. The bar she currently called her home base was owned by a man who was not worth as much as the blood in his veins, but he managed to mind his own business, and let Jane mind hers. It was enough to keep her from piercing the paper-thin skin that stretched over his throat. As it was, she was content with the glass of Finnish politician she was currently drinking. The circumstances behind how she had come to possess the bottle of blood made the already pleasant vintage immeasurably more satisfying. Setting her glass down, she leaned forward and crossed her arms, resting on the table and watching the entrance to the bar. 

It was always more difficult to sense the movement of a creature without a heartbeat, and she tried to plan ahead. In the distance, she could sense a dull thud – human, without a doubt. Frightened, perhaps, certainly waiting in anticipation. The Captain must have brought friends. _Precious._

She finished off her glass and sat back, closing her eyes and feeling the group that was walking towards her come closer. They opened the moment a hand started to press on the door, creaking in the silence of the room. The bar was empty, as were the tables around her – she had arranged for privacy, and she was sure none of the employees here would be foolish enough to disregard her request. 

Slowly, John walked in, followed by a tall, pale man, an older gentleman in a suit – a politician? She could swear she had seen him in the background of a few news reports – a small, brunette woman, and a detective from the Met. She recognized him immediately, though she doubted he would remember her. She stood and walked around the table, stopping a few meters from John, who had also paused.

“Only you?” John asked, looking around.

“That you can see,” she replied, uncrossing her arms and opening her mouth just enough that her fangs could be seen.

John came closer, eyeing the table behind her for any other weapons, then looking her over quickly. 

“Williams,” he said with a nod.

“Watson,” she answered. The pair stared at one another, then, without warning, moved towards one another. John, who was a good three inches shorter than Jane, lifted and spun her, keeping her locked in a hug that she returned with equal enthusiasm. Molly and Lestrade both jumped back as the pair started to laugh. 

“How long has it been? Five years?” He asked, chuckling as he released her.

“Six,” Jane answered, correcting him. “You don't call, you don't write... I've had half the damn unit on my arse trying to find out where you'd gone, or if you were even alive, and I couldn't get your number until you texted me.”

“Keeping out of the public eye,” John answered. “It wasn't pleasant for me either, you know. Not being able to talk to any of you. Though I was rather enjoying being classified as dead.”

“Seems like the sort of thing you'd like,” Jane answered, sitting down across from John and gesturing John's friends towards the empty seats. “I visited your grave.”

John nodded. “In that cemetery in Swansea? It was the only one available on short notice.”

“The very same. I knew you weren't down there, obviously, in the ground – I would have known.”

John's nods stopped, his forehead crinkling in thought. “You dug me up anyways, didn't you?”

“I had to be sure you were screwing with everyone, and not _actually_ dead.” 

“Thorough,”John said. “What did they wind up putting in the coffin?”

Jane thought about her answer, then said, “You might not like it.”

“Humour me,” John replied. 

“Ten packages of crisps and a couple of condoms.” 

John stared at her, mouth slightly open, then let his head fall into his hand, chuckling in disbelief. “Why am I surprised? There's no reason for me to be surprised. It's -” He paused and looked at the people still standing behind him. “Are you lot going to sit down?” He gestured at the other chairs around the table, which the group still stood a safe distance from. Taking the lead, Mycroft hung his umbrella over the back of an adjacent chair and sat down, quickly followed by the rest of John's companions. 

“Sorry, did she say you're _dead_?” Lestrade asked, analyzing John again.

John looked at Jane, then to the inspector. “As far as the army's concerned. They declared me dead after I was involved in a certain... encounter.” He had chosen the word carefully, and still it tasted wrong in his mouth. “I never corrected them. I moved, started using 'Watson' again, and got on with my life. It seemed safer for the rest of my unit that way.”

“What was left of it, anyways,” Jane muttered, and took one last sip of her drink. John shot her a glance that both of the Holmes brothers immediately read as a warning to the vampire. The flash of John's temper was ignored completely by both Lestrade and Molly, who were only just beginning to realize that the woman in front of them had been finishing off a bottle of blood.

“So,” Jane said, changing the subject and looking at the people who had arrived with John. She rested her head on her hand, gently tracing the jagged scar that ran across the dark skin of her cheek as she spoke. “Who are your friends?” 

“Sherlock Holmes,”said John, holding a hand out in the direction of the man beside him.

“Oh, I know him,” Jane said with a laugh. “I read your blog.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“I know you too, actually, _detective inspector_ ,” she said as she leaned forward towards Lestrade, running her tongue over a sharp white fang. 

“Really?” asked Greg, remarkably calm. “How?”

“You don't remember me?” Jane asked.

The man shook his head.

“I was your first arrest,” she said, smiling at the memory. “Brixton, ninety-five. You swore you couldn't see me in the mirrors of your car. You were right,” she said with a grin.

Lestrade's eyes narrowed. 

“You're that car thief,” he said. “You got out of your cell that night, we never found you.”

“And now you have,” she said. “Congratulations.”

“Would have been nicer twenty years ago,” he muttered. 

Jane's eyes flicked to Mycroft, and took in his well-pressed suit and tie, and – more striking than anything else – his absent pulse. “You're -”

“Mycroft Holmes,” the man said smoothly, offering a hand. “So pleased to meet you.”

She looked back at him, her smile fixed on her face. Without raising his voice, she knew he had issued a challenge. _Go ahead – mention that I'm a vampire, and see if you survive the night_. She wouldn't rise to it; she was, after all, more than twice the man's age, and sure that the young vampire had his own reasons for keeping his condition secret. “Mutual,” she said, taking his hand firmly. Only the petite woman to Mycroft's right remained. Jane's eyes met her's.

“Molly Hooper,” the mousy woman said timidly, waving awkwardly. “Hi.”

“Hello,” the vampire returned, drawing her eyes down towards the nape of the woman's neck and smiling lazily. Molly blushed.

John cleared his throat and pulled his phone from his shirt pocket, and Jane turned to look at him. “I have a few pictures to show you,” the doctor said, flicking to the correct screen and handing it to Jane.

She looked through the pictures; most were of bodies, none particularly remarkable, but a few with the telltale signs of a vampire attack.

“The serial murders around London. You've heard of them, right?”

“Not until recently,” Jane said, glancing at John before continuing to look through the rest of the photographs. “And I haven't seen pictures this detailed. Definitely vampire attacks, then,” she said as she came to a particularly gruesome image of a woman whose neck appeared to be very nearly severed. One of Mycroft's victims, John knew, but he intended to keep that fact secret a little longer.

“Yes,” John confirmed. “Have you heard anything about them?”

“I've asked around for you, and I haven't turned up much,” she said, putting the phone down. “Not about these murders specifically.”

“What have you heard?” 

“So, I started asking around to see if anyone's noticed anything weird - all for you, my friend, so keep in mind you owe me - and all I can come up with is a bloke in Wales who says a bunch of warehouses are being bought up in his area. I cant get any further than that with the public records office until I start mentioning you, because apparently throwing around the name 'Van Helsing' is the only thing that gets things done around here. Which is fine enough, because eventually they let me look into the property records, and lo and behold, who's the buyer but Simon Wilcox. Do you remember him?"

John nodded. Jane turned to look at the rest of the group to elaborate.

"An absolutely useless excuse for a nightwalker, tried to turn his grandmother, the bloody idiot, and The Council had to sort him out. Never mind that. So I confront him, and he hasn't the slightest clue what I'm talking about, he just wants to get back to selling overpriced cocaine to public school kids, or whatever the hell kind of racket he happened to be involved in that day. So he's annoyed, trying to get me off his back, but he does say that he's heard about all the real estate purchases, and keeps hearing the word 'army trio' tossed around. Now I know that rings a bell, doesn't it?"

John crossed his arms and leaned back, murmuring the words, when realization flashed across his face. “Back in the day, there was a group that called themselves that, wasn't there? That group of American lieutenants.”

Jane nodded. “So I check army records, get their names. Turns out, all of them died in the war.”

“Great,” John said, frowning.

“I'm afraid that's all I've got for you, John. Just a dead end. Oh, and,” she said, grinning as she pulled out a piece of paper from her jacket. “For you.”

John glanced at the paper, then back up at Jane. “What is this?”

“Look and see.”

He unfolded the paper and read the page of addresses. Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at them. “This is...”

“Warehouse locations. Thought you may want to check them out, as I haven't gotten around to it yet.”

“Perfect,” John murmured. He looked up. “You've been more helpful than you know.”

Jane nodded. “Glad to help.”

John looked around at his companions. “We should probably get going. Not to safe to stay in one place too long.” He turned back to Jane as he stood. “Especially if we're being followed.” He moved forward and offered Jane his outstretched hand.“Williams.”

“Captain,” she replied, mirroring his stance and shaking his hand. “Gentlemen,” she said, adding, “and lady,” with a wink as she looked at Molly.

John turned, and Mycroft led the way to the door. 

“Now what?” Sherlock asked, falling back to walk alongside John.

“Divide and conquer, I suppose,” John answered, looking up at him. Sherlock smiled and pulled his scarf tighter.

“I look forward to it.”

Jane sat down again and rested her elbows on the table, watching as the group left and the door swung shut. She poured herself another glass of blood and sipped it thoughtfully, considering the task that John would be undertaking. Just as she came to the end of her drink, she heard a creak, and had the unmistakeable feeling of someone watching her. She turned in her seat and tapped her fingers on the side of her glass.

“Evening.”

“Hi,” said a voice from the shadows, and a man stepped forward.

“You,” Jane said, her voice hardly more than a whisper. “Well. I should have seen that coming.”

“Yes,” the man answered, amusement in his voice. “You really should have.”

He slowly turned the stake in his hand, a finger brushing along its base. Jane tilted her glass, finished it off, and smiled, blood dripping down one of her fangs. She stood, facing the man before her. 

“Come and get me, then.”


	12. Chapter 12

“ _For a space of perhaps a couple of minutes there was silence, and I could fancy that I could hear the sound of our hearts beating.”_

  
“Where next?” Lestrade asked as they made their way across the street to the car.  
  
“A few hours before sunrise, get a few rooms at a hotel or go to Mycroft's. I'd really suggest the hotel, though; somewhere cheap that won't press you to give your real names. The harder you make yourselves to be followed, the better. Baker Street's off-limits, clearly, and I don't want the three of you splitting up.”  
  
“Where are you and Sherlock going?” Molly asked.

John glanced at Sherlock, then said, “I'm not quite sure yet. You've got my number, and a good eight hours before dawn. The more we can get done while the city is quiet, the better.” He handed a slip of paper to Mycroft, and added, “Those are the addresses. The three of you can decide how you want to tackle them. We can regroup tomorrow night.”

John nodded at Mycroft, hoping he would take the hint to get back to a hotel before dawn. The man slipped the sheet of paper into his breast pocket and began walking towards the car, followed by Molly.  
  
“You may want to call Mrs. Hudson,” Lestrade said before walking away. “Warn her.”  
  
“Oh,” John said, remembering the flat, which was very likely still smoking. “Right. I probably should.”

Lestrade smiled and turned back, adding,“Have her call the Yard. They'll sort everything out.”  
With that, the group parted, and Sherlock and John watched as the others made their way to the waiting car.  
  
“Where are we going?” Sherlock asked, and John looked up at him. “You seem to have a plan, or you wouldn't have sent the others off to look at the warehouses. What is it?”  
  
“You may not like it. I don't, and I'm still not sure if it's a great idea.”  
  
“Worse than digging around in bins in Canary Wharf? Remarkable.”  
  
“Maybe not that bad,” John said, and leaned against the building beside him. “There's a club in London. It's hard to find if you're not looking for it, and it's even harder to get in. It's very nearly impossible if you aren't a vampire yourself, actually. It's where vampires and their – I'm not sure what the right word would be – _partners_ hang out. I feel like we may get more information about the recent deaths if we go directly to the people who know what's causing them.”  
  
“A vampire club,” Sherlock said slowly, trying his best not to mock John.  
  
“Yeah, yeah, I know. It's ridiculous,” he said, pushing off from the wall, and starting to walk towards the main road at the end of the street. Sherlock, as he naturally did, moved ahead to lead the way.  
  
“So, partners. I'm assuming you mean the club welcomes both vampires and humans, then?”  
  
“Right,” John replied. “Accompanied humans are allowed. Most vampires - in London, at least- take on human partners. Portable meals, you could call them. Clubs are a good place to show them off, swap them with other vampires.” Sherlock noticed his grimace, and John continued. “I'm generalizing, but vampires that are genuinely keen on maintaining a long term relationship with the human that they're feeding on don't usually take their mates out to violent, often dangerous clubs.”  
  
“No, I wouldn't imagine so,” Sherlock said. “Did you frequent these clubs? They don't appear to appeal to you.”

“They've never been my thing,” John answered. “I don't like humans being treated like meat.”

“And they don't attract any attention, these vampires? It seems as though it would be something vampire hunters would frown upon.”  
  
John shrugged. “No one really condemns them too much, as long as the humans stay alive, and quiet about the existence of vampires. Just keeping one person, and feeding off them... It's a relatively new thing in the culture, considering the thousands of years that vampires have existed. There's a lot less death involved when the human half of the partnership is given time to recover before being fed off of again.”  
  
“It does, however, seem to be a logical place to start. This seems like a good place to find a group of your... people?”  
  
“Not my people,” John replied, “More like the vampire underworld. It's your standard subculture-oriented club, there's just a bit more of an appreciation for blood involved.”  
  
“What worries you about going?” Sherlock asked, stopping in front of John at the end of the street as the pair waited for the distant lights of a cab to come closer. “You know it is the most logical decision, but you're reluctant. Why? Surely you've been worse places – and I have no doubt that we could handle ourselves.”  
  
“I don't doubt that _I_ can, Sherlock,” John said, watching his breath curl in the cold in front of him.  
  
“If it were a matter of putting me in a dangerous area, you wouldn't mention it; putting one another in dangerous situations is rather what we do. It has to be something else, something related to my humanity explicitly. So, what is it?”  
  
John hesitated, and Sherlock added, “I do not fully understand vampire culture yet. I know the words, but not how to speak them – the rules of the game, as it were, for being undead. Help me understand.” John noted that moment as one of he few times Sherlock had ever admitted to needing help.  
  
“Can we discuss this when we're not in the middle of the street?”  
  
“Fine,” Sherlock said.

The cab rolled to a stop in front of them, and Sherlock gave the address of a quiet, rundown hotel ten minutes away. John was continually surprised by the veritable encyclopaedia his friend kept in his head.  
  
The car pulled in to the cracked driveway that circled around the front entrance of the lobby, or what would have possibly been called the lobby in the hotel's better days. As it was, when the pair entered, they were met with a wave of stale air and dust. The foyer was sparse, decorated with a few outdated chairs and dim lights; all together, it was perfect for the pair.  
  
“How did you find this place?” John murmured as they made their way to the empty front desk.  
  
“Case a few years back,” Sherlock answered, and rang the bell.  
  
“Ah,”John said, and leaned forward on the desk. “I should have guessed.”

Five minutes and one awkward conversation with the desk clerk (a man in his fifties who clearly wasn't impressed with having his nap disturbed) and the pair had obtained a room key. John had run down to the hall to grab some snacks and water from a vending machine, leaving Sherlock to unpack the few belongings they had brought with them. Pulling out John's notes from his bag. He glanced over them quickly, noting the locations that John had circled.  
When the doctor reentered the room, arms laden with granola bars, Sherlock looked up. “Some of these buildings were on the list Jane gave you. What's the connection?”  
  
“They're good places to turn humans,” John replied, dumping the food on the desk beside Sherlock's laptop. “Quiet, isolated. None are that good of a location to keep a bunch of vampires, though. Still haven't figured that part out,” he said, trailing off.

Sherlock nodded and put the paper down, considering those addresses as well as the theories he was privately working on. “You may notice that we're no longer standing outside.”  
  
“That's a fair statement, yeah,” John answered.  
  
“You need to tell me the plan,” Sherlock stated.  
  
“I guess I do,” John said, and sat on the edge of his bed, facing Sherlock. “You may not like it. Or you will. I don't know. I'm not to keen on the idea, but...”  
  
Sherlock interrupted him. “Get to the point.”  
  
“Sorry,” John said. “You need to blend in if you're going to come with me. You don't have to.”  
  
“Blend in, or come with you? As you should be well aware, not coming with you isn't an option.”  
  
“I was afraid of that,” John replied.  
  
“So, make me blend in,” Sherlock replied. “Wait,” he said, holding up a hand before John could speak. “I don't know why it didn't occur to me sooner, it's completely straightforward. The club is for vampires and mates. Clearly you need to-”  
  
“I _know_ ,” John said, interrupting Sherlock in return. “I just don't want to.”  
  
“If you don't feed on me, I think it will be fair to conclude that I won't get within fifty meters from the door. Unaccompanied humans aren't welcome, or have I misunderstood?”  
  
“You haven't,” John said, resigned.  
  
“Excellent. We only have so many hours before dawn, and the streets are vampire-free. Let's make the most of them.” He tilted his head to the side and crossed his arms.  
  
John gaped and then looked away.  
  
“Nope,” John said, shaking his head. “Not tonight. It's a bad idea.”  
  
“And so far, the only one. Unless you would prefer to wait for something to happen to us, passive players in whatever we're now a part of.”  
  
Sherlock moved to sit next to John, and waited for him to look at him.  
  
“I know, just give me a moment,” he said, his fangs coming out unintentionally as he tried to think about other things. After a moment of silence, and Sherlock tapping his foot on the oddly sticky carpet, John tried once more to change his friend's mind.  
  
“This will hurt, you know,” John said.

“Yes, obviously. _Go on_ ,” Sherlock said impatiently, tilting his head further to the side to expose more of his neck.

“Stop that,” John replied as he jerked Sherlock closer by his lapels, his fangs making the movement appear much more threatening than intended.

Sherlock wet his lower lip thoughtfully as he peered down at John. “You're worried.”

John rolled his eyes and let him go, feigning interest in his phone, checking the time for the tenth time in as many minutes.

“It seems to go right over your head that this isn't a pleasant experience, Sherlock,” John said, finally looking in Sherlock's general direction.

“Ah, now you're using my name,” the other man said, crossing his arms as he leaned on the wall across from John. “I must be in trouble.”

“If only you knew,” John muttered. “Just tell me you do grasp the seriousness of this, right? You'll be a bit tired and off-balance for a while. Your neck will ache and until we're out of the club, you'll look fairly seriously bruised. And that's all assuming I don't accidentally sever anything vital.”

“Which you won't,” Sherlock responded dully, reassuring him. “You are, after all, a highly trained doctor.”

“Can't save you if you're already dead,” John countered.

“Don't be so sure,” Sherlock said, keen to get in the last word. He glanced at his watch. “Even accounting for finding a knowledgable vampire within the next few hours, we're late. Might as well get it over with.”

John nodded soberly and glanced down at Sherlock's neck again. “Right. You should move closer, then.” He gestured at space on the bed that was still left between them.

Obediently, Sherlock sat on the edge and waited for John manoeuvre himself beside him, his body twisted to face Sherlock. Sherlock exposed his neck once more, his hands lightly balled on his legs, but growing more tense by the moment.

John, mouth open, came closer to him, and pulled away. He considered reassuring Sherlock once more time, but decided against it. He pulled down Sherlock's collar a bit further, and brushed a stray curl out of his way. Giving himself a moment to wonder how his life had managed to go so off-course, he paused above Sherlock's neck, his fangs barely brushing the pale skin of the detective's neck. He breathed in the scent of the man before him – was Sherlock using his shampoo? No, not important – and bit down.  
  
Sherlock gasped, apparently involuntarily, and grabbed at the sheets of the bed. As though by natural reflex John brought a hand up to Sherlock's face, a thumb pressing against his jaw, and pulled him closer. Blood filled his mouth, and John was immediately struck by a feeling of overwhelming desire, wanting at once to drain him of blood, while at the same time wanting to keep Sherlock with him, and alive. It was with a certain amount of reluctance, and a great deal of guilt for feeling reluctant, that John released Sherlock and reached for a towel. He pressed it to Sherlock's neck, trying to cover the puncture marks as best he could.  
  
“Hold that there,” John said, as he stood and quickly walked over to the desk and began to uncap a bottle of water. He poured it into a glass, managing to spill half of it on the table, and returned to Sherlock, concern written on his face.  
  
Sherlock, too stunned to articulate his thoughts, nodded. He obediently drank from the glass John offered, and handed it back once it was empty.  
Eventually, with a slightly rough voice, he spoke. “We'll have to do that again. Plenty of experiments. Speaking of, how many illnesses do you think I'll catch from using a hotel cup? It's rather revolting, even by my standards.” He looked critically at the smudged glass.  
  
“Jesus Christ,” John said, laughing. He ran a hand through his sandy hair, leaving flecks of blood in it. “Well, as long as you can still talk.”He put a hand over Sherlock's on the cloth and lifted it up, noting the blood slowing. “I'll use some of my blood on those marks later. By morning you won't even notice them.”  
  
“Perhaps I should take a picture,” Sherlock mused. “Send it to Mycroft. It would give him a heart attack.”  
  
“Don't you dare,” John said. “It probably would. I'd never hear the end of it for hurting his baby brother.”  
  
“You didn't hurt me,” Sherlock said as he folded the towel over to the drier side.  
  
“No?”  
  
“It surprised me,” he replied. “It was different. I'm sure there was pain, but my mind didn't recognize it as such.” Sherlock paused, and continued, more thoughtful. “It was as though everything stopped.”

“Oh.”John wasn't sure what to say. He wasn't quite prepared to unpack Sherlock's words – he didn't even have the time – but he knew that his friend was all right. Seemingly unscarred by the event, in any case.  
  
“How was it for you?” Sherlock asked, taking a sip of his water.  
  
“Pardon?”

“You did just drink my blood. I'm sure you have thoughts on the matter,” Sherlock said, as though he were speaking about something as routine as one of their regular cases.  
  
“Oh,” John said, pondering his answer. “It was fine, I guess. Fine. I mean, you tasted nice,” he said. Noting Sherlock's smirk, his eyes widened as he repeated the words he had said back to himself. “That... may not be something I ever thought I'd have to say.”John flushed; partially from embarrassment, partially from the feeling of strength that was flooding him. Fresh blood was not something he indulged in often, and his body didn't protest it.  
  
“Any different from usual?”Sherlock asked. John assumed he meant the taste.  
  
“It's always different. Always unique to the person, I've found.” Sherlock waited for him to continue. “You're hard to describe. Kind of like 221B. Not the tea, or Mrs. Hudson's biscuits, or anything like that. But, the smell of something in the kitchen having exploded, smoke and chemicals, the creak of the stairs - the way all that feels, that's how you taste; does that make sense?”  
  
“No,”Sherlock said, nodding despite his words. “But I'll try to understand.”  
  
“All right,” John said, nodding. He glanced around awkwardly and moved towards his bag. “A quick change of clothes and we can go.”  
  
“Fair enough,” Sherlock replied, and walked to the desk to open his laptop. John left him, making his way to the bathroom, and Sherlock opened up a few files. Brushing up on what they knew so far, he felt confident that he wouldn't be too lost with John that evening. Not so lost, at least, that he couldn't fake some kind of brilliance. He glanced quickly at the lunar calendar he had bookmarked, then closed the computer. Not long after, John exited the bathroom, wearing a dark button-up shirt and a pressed pair of jeans that he didn't normally use. He noted that John looked much like Sherlock himself. His hair was neatly brushed, though he hadn't combed out the blood streaks. Sherlock glanced at himself in the mirror as he stood; he was pale, more so than usual, and appeared tired. The red smudges on his neck, and the dark stains on his shirt didn't add much to his appearance.  
  
“If I know vampires – and I do, they're predictable – on a Friday night they should be at King and St. Michael's.”

“Ready?” Sherlock asked.

“Always,” John answered.

 

The cab ride to the club was brief, stopping well before the two men were near the club. Sherlock spent most of the ride pulling his coat collar forward, though his attention to covering his neck was apparently unnecessary, as the driver did not so much as give his odd behaviour a sidelong glance. Walking in the brisk, very early morning air, John led Sherlock down side streets and staircases until they reached an unusually dark section of road. It appeared as though all the streetlights in the area had burned out, and the only light that could be seen was a simple red circle near the door of a nondescript grey building.

“That's it?” Sherlock asked. John closed his eyes and focused.

“Definitely,” he answered. “This whole street smells like iron.”

Sherlock couldn't tell.  
  
“Vampires first,” the taller man said, and gestured for him to walk forward. He felt the distinct feeling of eyes watching him as he walked forward with John, though however hard he focused, he couldn't see anything in the darkness.  
Once at the door, John knocked heavily on the metal frame twice. He waited.  
After what seemed like five minutes, the door swung in. A tall man stood before them, and didn't say a word.  
  
“John Watson, Sherlock Holmes,” John said, looking directly into the figure's eyes. He opened his mouth and allowed his fangs to become visible. Though the man remained silent, he stepped back, and watched John intently as he guided Sherlock down the hall, to yet another flight of stairs.

At a door near the bottom, they paused, then pressed ahead.

The sight before them didn't so much surprise Sherlock as it fulfilled the image he had of it in his head. Loud bass, unheard from the street, filled the dark, smoky room, and groups of people throughout the crowd talked loudly to one another. Figures occasionally leaned over to the people they were with (their humans, Sherlock supposed) to bite at them or pull at others nearby. Tables scattered throughout the room were filled with cards and chips, and crowds around those groups would occasionally let out a cheer. John closed the door behind himself, and made his way to the counter with Sherlock, meandering through the many bodies in his way. He didn't intend to order anything, more than half of the clientele in the building wouldn't either, but the area was slightly less busy. Sherlock stood close in front of him and looked around, taking in his new surroundings. One exit, no windows, and a few back rooms; nothing out of the ordinary. Almost immediately, a hand reached out to grab at Sherlock, who was still weak enough from losing so much blood that he fell to the side, leaning towards the vampire that had grabbed him.  
  
Almost immediately, John, who had been gazing around the room himself, reached a hand out and snapped the wrist of the other vampire back.  
“Mine,” He said, baring his teeth and stepping in front of Sherlock protectively. The other vampire moved away, shrugging as he turned back to his own companion and started rubbing his newly-broken wrist.  
  
“I hate these clubs,” John muttered.

“It seems like every other one I've had the misfortune of coming to,” Sherlock replied, leaning in closer to hear John. “No sports at this hour, though, so overall it may be winning.”

John finally smiled. “Fair enough. Want something to drink? For a bar that caters to people that can't consume alcohol, the vampires around here do tend to make a good whisky sour.”

“I'm already dizzy,” he said. “It would wise not to tempt fate with anything further.”

“I'm a terrible doctor, sometimes,” John said, shaking his head as he remembered Sherlock's current state. “We should try to find someone who isn't here for the entertainment. What do you think?”

Sherlock looked around. “Give me a minute.”  
Glancing at each group of people, he analyzed faces and posture, before settling on a group in the corner. “There.”

John arched his heels to get a better view. “The group of five?”

“Yes. Do you see the vampire in the black shirt?”

“Yeah?”

“He's the only one that stands out. Everyone else is focused on blood or their cards.”

John squinted to try and make out his features. “He doesn't look familiar. That may be a good sign.”

Sherlock led the way to the table, and once they had room, he let John ahead of him. John slowly managed to get closer to the man Sherlock had pointed out, trying not to attract the attention of the three humans and one other vampire that accompanied him.  
  
Once in arm's reach, he tapped the man's shoulder. The figure, who had moments earlier been staring moodily out at the other patrons in the bar, immediately stiffened, turning to John with unexpected rage as he stood. Incredibly fast, he pushed through those around him to get a hand on John's shirt. John, having spent years dealing not only with vampires, but with young, volatile men in the army, recognized his posture and with his half-second head start was able to duck before the fist that swung at his head made contact. The hand, which barely missed him, instead hit the stone wall, breaking off chips of rock.

 _'Physical contact. Always a bad way to get a vampire's attention,_ ' John thought to himself as he quickly tried to figure out what had set the other creature off. When he stood back up, he saw blinding anger written in the features of the vampire. Taking his chance, he took the arm that had just hit the wall, turned it, and managed to get the other man into a headlock.

“That way,” John said to Sherlock, gesturing to the left with his head.

He managed to follow Sherlock along, vampire in tow, until they reached a large door, which Sherlock hoped lead to an empty room. In luck, John's instructions for unlocking it worked, and once opened revealed an empty room, bare, save for a heavy table in the centre of it. In the moment it took John to watch Sherlock enter the room, one of the vampire's hands became freed, and struck him under his eye, momentarily blinding him. Before he noticed what had happened, Sherlock grabbed hold of the vampire and shoved him to the table, holding him down by the neck.

A crowd had started to gather just inside the door, as those near the commotion in the back of the bar began to take notice of John, Sherlock, and the other man.

“Out,” Sherlock snarled, and even John jumped back. Watching the detective out of the corner of his eye, he moved the remaining bystanders out, and slammed the heavy door closed. Under Sherlock's hand, the man continued to struggle, fangs striking against his lower lips as they sought foreign flesh.  
  
“We don't have long. Did you bring your silver chains?” Sherlock asked.  
  
“Yep,”John said, pulling them from his pocket. He glanced up at Sherlock. “Ready?” The other man nodded.  
Very quickly, Sherlock let go of the vampire's neck, and John slipped the chain over where his hand had been. The vampire hissed as the silver burned its skin, and John quickly pulled him backwards, off the table, and towards a metal pipe that ran from the ceiling to the floor. Tying the vampire to it, he stepped back, rubbing his hands on his jeans lightly. While the silver didn't burn John's hands, Sherlock noticed that his palms still looked as though they had been submerged in boiling water.  
Sherlock and John gave themselves time to breathe, and the vampire time to calm down.

“That didn't really go as planned,” Sherlock said.

“Tell me about it,” John said. “We should have gone with Lestrade. I wasn't expecting _this_.”  
He watched as the vampire fought against his restraints, and felt a cold fear creep down his spine. By any standard, undead or living, the vampire before him was far too enraged, far too uncontrollable. It felt, in a way that John could only sense at his core, unnatural. It was something he had never seen before – not even in war.  
  
“About a decade ago there was a billiards table in here,” He added absently a few minutes later, frowning as he looked around the room. “We should probably do something about him,”and nodded towards the struggling vampire.  
The vampire paused briefly in his protestations to gaze at Sherlock, then John.  
  
“Who are you? Why didn't you just ask me why I wanted to talk to you?”  
  
“Is this an interrogation?” The vampire asked, laughing madly before throwing himself back heavily towards the pipe. His hands, pulling in vain at the silver, grew more and more red, and his kicks against the wall shook the room itself.

“If you'd like it to be. You could just tell me who's causing all these murders, why new vampires are being made, and we could go our separate ways.”  
Spit flew from the mouth as the vampire continued to bite at the air, trying to break free.

“I'm more than willing to let you go,” John said.

The vampire lurched forward once more, only to be pulled back. Sherlock pulled out a knife from his pocket just in case the chains failed.

“Fine. What do the full moons have to do with all the deaths?”  
  
“Moons,” the vampire said, laughing maniacally and throwing his head back, snapping his head down to look at John with bloodshot eyes. “You have no idea yet, do you? No idea what's coming for you,” he said, and continued to laugh.  
  
“No, but I'm fairly certain what will be waiting for you if you don't give me something to work with,” John replied.

“I'm not going to tell you fuck all, _Van Helsing_ ,” he said. Taking in John's look of surprise, he continued, “Yeah, that's right, we know you're back. However fast you think word can travel among your hunters, we'll always be faster.”  
  
“You think?” John said.  
  
“I've got an army waiting to back me up. It doesn't even matter if you kill me-”the vampire said.  
  
“Great news,” John interjected, his voice monotone.  
  
“-What do you have?”  
  
“Good question. Sherlock, do you have enough?”

Sherlock smiled. “More than enough.”  
  
Confusion flickered across the face of the vampire as Sherlock stepped forward.  
  
“With that accent, you're from Germany. Easy.” The detective began to pace. “Your choice of words and speech patterns point to being relatively poorly educated. Your clothes, however, are well-made, nowhere close to being in your budget. Newly turned, or you would have taken longer restrain. You're an underling, obviously, and someone's paying you well to do whatever you've been charged with doing. Of course, they probably didn't expect you to come out to a bar to brag about your position, but that's none of my concern, is it?” Sherlock said, smiling insincerely. John wondered how he had figured out a way to apply his powers of deduction to vampires.  
  
“And all this is without even mentioning your right breast pocket, which is clearly holding papers.”Sherlock reached quickly to the vampire's jacket pocket and pulled out a handful of crumpled pieces of thoroughly marked up notebook paper. “Dull. You're just giving yourself away.”

He turned to John. “That should be everything.”

“Brilliant." There was a banging on the door.

“Time to go, apparently,” Sherlock said, and made his way to the door. John waved to the still-chained vampire, and followed Sherlock. The pair opened the door, smiled quickly at the club employee who was waiting outside, and began to move as quickly to the exit as they could. Fifteen seconds later, before anyone in the bar was quite sure of what had happened, John and Sherlock were out the door.  
  
It was at approximately this time that the chained vampire realized that he was at the mercy of other vampires to free him, and let out an inhuman cry. Sherlock and John listened to it fade into the distance as they ran up the stairs and exited the building, moving swiftly past the guard at the door. Once outside, they glanced at one another, and without a word, took off running for the nearest major street.


	13. Chapter 13

_“There was one great tomb more lordly than all the rest. Huge it was, and nobly proportioned. On it was but one word.”_

 

The air conditioning in the train made a soft hum, clicking on just as Greg was about to nod off. He opened an eye and glanced to his right, where Molly had already fallen asleep. At least she was managing to get some rest. Mycroft's eyes were closed, but one hand was tapping on the seat to his left; not asleep either, then.

Greg stared absently at the upholstery of his seat until he saw Mycroft shift around. Their eyes met and Greg offered a smile and a nod. Mycroft, whose eyes were focused on Greg but didn’t really seem to be _seeing_ him, looked away again. He slipped a hand into a pocket and began to type quickly. Greg was about to feel put out, but was immediately handed Mycroft’s mobile.

In the open note application, he read: _I have had my assistant book rooms at a hotel near the train station. We can begin looking at the list of addresses tomorrow evening._  
  
Greg glancedup at Mycroft, then began to type a response back, far slower than Mycroft had been typing.

_Didn’t Sherlock and John want to regroup tomorrow night?_

Mycroft took the mobile back, and began typing almost immediately. He passed Greg the phone once more.

_They will be able to continue without us. I am quite sure that John has plenty on his plate already._

Greg read the message, then handed the phone back without a response. Mycroft returned his gaze to the window. The sky was just beginning to lighten – the faintest hint of purple and a slight pricking along the surface of his skin let him know that dawn was fast approaching. They would be at their destination shortly.

-

In the intervening time between unloading what little luggage they had – two discreet, black boxes that contained a few weapons lent by John – and sundown, the group had managed to put together the bones of a plan. Mycroft had booked them a room at a hotel that barely stood out from the buildings that surrounded it, and the room he chose was in the centre of the building, on a floor that sounded completely empty. Lestrade and Molly hadn’t realized how unnerving it felt to be in a hotel room without windows until they were in one; Mycroft didn’t even appear to notice.

Molly was adding pins to a map on her computer as Greg dictated addresses to her, and Mycroft would occasionally interject with a piece of information, like the best way to approach the location, or which areas would be less populated. More often than not, however, he sat silently off to the side, slightly slumped over in his chair, dabbing with his handkerchief at a persistent nosebleed that was coming and going. Greg was concerned, but wrote it off on stress. Mycroft only hoped that as the clock crept closer to midday, he wouldn’t grow any paler. _That_ would cause undue attention, given the circumstances.  
  
As Molly typed, she added the notes, Googling the locations for additional information in the brief silences where no one had anything to contribute. So far, nothing was coming up – the list of warehouses and abandoned buildings really did seem to be just a list of empty spaces.

Once all of Jane’s list had been entered, and the group could no longer put off discussing the next step, Greg and Molly looked to Mycroft, who had assumed the role of leader without needing to say anything. He stood, and pulled his handkerchief away, concealing it in his fist.

“Tomorrow evening,” he stated. He glanced at the map, and closed the laptop with the tips of his right hand. “We’ll begin looking then.”

That gave Greg pause. “Wouldn’t it be better to go now? While it’s still light out?”

Molly glanced between the two men.

Mycroft shook his head. “The pair of you need your rest.” He didn’t speak for himself, though he could feel the tell-tale tremble in his knees that suggested they may buckle at any moment.

“Also, you would do well to eat and conserve your energy. We’ve done enough for the day, and we will handle the night as John would want us to: carefully, and as slowly as we need to, until we have what we need.”

“I… agree with Mycroft, actually,” she said, looking at Greg, who was just about to offer his counter-argument.” Before he could interrupt, she said quietly, “I’d rather be well-rested and prepared, than efficient and surrounded by vampires.”

Lestrade accepted that his desire to get in and out as quickly as possible wasn’t appealing to the others. He shrugged and assented. Molly put her computer under one of her arms, pulled out the key card to her room, and began to walk to the door. “See the both of you later?”

Mycroft nodded and Greg offered a half-hearted ‘yep’ as he moved to follow her.

“You’ve got my phone number, Mycroft – let me know when you’re up,” Greg said as he reached the door. Mycroft nodded at him and followed. Just as he was half a step into the hallway, Lestrade turned to look at Mycroft. “And get some sleep, mate. You look like you’ve been in a fight.” Greg smiled sympathetically, and Mycroft tried his best to look understanding. The DI left, and Mycroft locked the door, stepping towards the small bed to the left of the door.

Immediately relieved of the need to appear well, Mycroft stumbled to the bed. He found himself barely able to grip the nightstand, and reflected on how weak the daylight so far away was making him. He would have thought further on the curious nature of vampirehood, but found himself unable to as every mental process he had available to him shut down, one by one. Just before he lost control entirely of his mind, he pushed himself away from the nightstand with one hand and landed on the bed. Slowly, his world went dark, and he fell into a world without dreams.

Hours later, he was awoken by a pounding in his head. As he pulled himself to an upright position, he found that he was in almost the exact same position that he had fallen asleep in. He glanced at his watch: seven o’clock. Dusk. If it weren’t for the wrinkles set in his suit, which he never had time to change out of, Mycroft wouldn’t have noticed the change in time.

Managing to get to his feet, he moved towards the washroom. As he turned the tap on and waited for the old plumbing to bring up hot water, he glanced up at the mirror. He couldn’t see himself, and was surprised to find that he was still caught off-guard by that fact. He counted himself fortunate that years of working late nights at his London office had given him the ability to make himself look presentable without the aid of a mirror.

Had he been able to see himself, he would have noticed the sunken blue rings around his eyes, which were gradually fading as he applied a hot towel to the area. Walking around helped displace the blood too, and Mycroft did his best to stretch out his arms and legs in the narrow room. He had neglected to bring an extra change of clothes, but knew better than to fret about it. After a few minutes, he was washed, brushed, and feeling far more like his usual self, ignoring the ever-present desire for blood. He ignored the voice in his head that murmured about that subject.

He paused, and could hear footsteps approaching his room. By the time Molly’s first knock had only just made contact with his door, he was already welcoming her in. Slightly flustered, she entered, and looked back to welcome Greg in as well.

“Molly and I were just printing off the map. Are we ready to go?”

“I believe so. You have the… stake?” The word felt strange coming out of his mouth.

“Yeah. Molly, you’re set?”

“I’m fine too. I think we’re ready.” She shifted the laptop bag at her side, which was rubbing against the gun and holster John had given her.

Mycroft felt as though his fangs would provide adequate protection, but in the interest of keeping the others unaware of this, he had politely accepted a few plain, wooden stakes, which he had arranged carefully in the interior of his coat.

As casually as they could manage, the group made their way down the stairs, through the lobby, and into the early evening. They consulted the map occasionally, and made their way in the general direction they needed to go. They had agreed, collectively, that taking a cab would only attract attention in the ostensibly deserted areas of the city that they were heading to. By the time they made it to the first location on Jane’s list, it was reasonably dark.

Standing in front of what appeared to be an empty field bordered by a cheap chain-link fence, Greg was the first to break the silence.

“That’s a bit of a let down.”

It was difficult for the others to disagree. The field was, by all accounts, bare. Sparse grass dotted the flat square of land, which was fairly large. However, there was nothing to be seen – even the litter pressed against the edges of the fence seemed ordinary. Molly was about to consult her map, but Mycroft spoke first.

“Perhaps we should move on?”

“Agreed,” Greg said. Molly gave the next address, and they continued on. Much to Greg’s disappointment, the following three locations were equally disappointing. Two had buildings on them, but they were unguarded and appeared to house only the ground. The plot of land that didn’t have a structure on it seemed promising, but wound up being just as pointless as the others.

Tired, and having spent hours walking and examining every possible rock with a suspicious silhouette, the group headed to the fifth address. This location was farther from the city than the others, but necessary to see for the sake of being thorough. Without much optimism about it, Molly, Greg, and Lestrade made their way to the entrance of a massive warehouse, set apart from the other buildings on the street.

“This one has a lock,” Greg said, surprised. “That’s new.” He pulled at it roughly, then pulled a pen out of his jacket pocket and began to fiddle with it. “Keep an eye out. If I get arrested for burglary I’m not going to be pleased.”

Molly and Mycroft scanned the boarded up windows of the nearby buildings. Everything seemed to be quiet. With a grunt, Lestrade managed to open the lock, and pushed the door forward gingerly.

He looked at his companions, nodded once, and entered. Molly followed, with Mycroft at her heels. He was able to adapt more quickly than the others to the darkness, and was able to locate a power switch for the lights within moments. Only a few lights flickered on, with those that did come on only lighting up a small fraction of the area beneath them. In the large area, it was more than Mycroft would have expected.

Light from one of the dim bulbs fell on a few broken, crumbling statues in a corner of the warehouse. Farther ahead in the room, flat stones lay on the floor. Molly laughed nervously and said that the whole thing was “very Doctor Who.”

Her companions missed the reference.

Lestrade moved closer to the stones, while Molly glanced at the walls and eventually followed the DI’s lead. Mycroft, whose attention was caught by something else, walked over to the far side of the room, across from the others.

“Jesus, these are old,” Lestrade said as he kneeled down, tapping at the corner of the largest marble slab.

“Greg,” Molly murmured. “These are headstones.” She ran her hand over the surface of the stone, removing some of the dust. The names etched in it were too faded to read in the low level of light.

Lestrade looked up, and in the darkness saw the outlines of other similar shapes all across the warehouse.

“This is a graveyard.”

“Mycroft,” Greg called as he stood and turned around, finally prying his eyes from the illegible epitaph. Mycroft continued to stare in the opposite direction. Greg began to walk across the warehouse floor towards the other man, stopping halfway to him. “Mycroft?"

Mycroft was transfixed by something ahead of him. A massive slab, heavily engraved, sat slightly off-centre on the ground, its edges falling to pieces. Greg tried to get Mycroft’s attention, and attempted to see behind the other man.

“Mycroft!” He called again, giving up.

Mycroft was still, then perfectly rigid, a difference that Greg couldn’t quite understand until he saw it.

“Mycroft?” He said.

Mycroft turned, his eyes rimmed in red, and a tremor beginning to form in his hand. Holding on to every ounce of humanity left in him, he gazed directly at Lestrade and whispered a single word.  
  
“ _Run_.”


	14. Chapter 14

_“Well, the devil may work against us for all he's worth, but God sends us men when we want them.”_

 

John ground his teeth together as the needle threaded through the skin of his arm.

“Couldn’t have managed to pick up some drugs on your way over here?”

Sebastian snorted. “Come on, soldier. You’ve sewn up plenty of people. Can’t handle it when the needle’s turned on you?”

“Ah, fuck off,” the shorter man said. “Wouldn’t have needed any stitches in the first place if you had called me earlier.”

“Just a break in,” Sebastian muttered as he pulled a bit on the string. He took a drag on the cigarette that was resting at the side of his mouth. “Nothing to worry about.” 

John flexed his arm a bit, making the pain worse. He did it once more for good measure, then sighed. “I didn’t get all of them. Seven vampires in ten minutes. This base is guarded better than the damn crown jewels. The fence alone has enough silver on it to fry a coven and a half. How did they get in?”

Sebastian shrugged, and pulled another stitch through. “You’re the captain, Captain. Try asking Jane.”

John shook his head. “Jane’s off-base for the weekend.”

For a moment the only sound that could be heard was the sound of thread whispering past skin.

“Maybe it was ghosts,” John said seriously.

 “Witches,” suggested Sebastian.

“Skinwalkers,” John answered. 

The pair snickered. John looked out through the window of the clinic, as the sun rose above the plain, orderly military buildings. The sand that surrounded the fence had just started to shimmer with the heat that would soon take over. “I’ll get this place under control one of these days.”

Sebastian smiled. John didn’t notice how quickly that smile fell, the moment he looked away.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock was unsure what had woken him up first – the bright morning sun that was streaming through the window to his right, or the rhythmic rubbing of John’s thigh between his legs.

The doctor murmured as he pressed himself against Sherlock, his mouth slightly open, and his lips brushing softly against the detective’s neck.

Sherlock, to his credit, did not immediately panic. He arranged his thoughts, ordering them as he would any of the other passing ideas that floated through his mind. This was difficult, of course, given that every inch of his skin seemed to be tingling and distracting him. John let out a soft moan, finally prompting Sherlock to move back as far as he could. Extricating himself proved more of a challenge than expected; John was sound asleep, dreaming - Sherlock hoped - of more pleasant times.

            Opting to ignore the erection that was demanding his attention, Sherlock made his way to the coffeepot in the corner of the room and focused on it instead. Soon, he heard John waking up, though he didn’t turn to look - instead, Sherlock stared directly at the blank wall ahead of him. It was safer that way, he assured himself. It would be far less distracting than actually _looking_ at the softly yawning man behind him.

“You’re making coffee?” John slurred, not quite awake.

“Yes,” Sherlock answered, scratching intently at a stain on the wooden tabletop. “I do know how to use a percolator, believeit or not.”

“I never said you didn’t,” John said, rubbing at his eyes. “Though, yeah, it’s a bit of a surprise.”

John sat up, and squinted at Sherlock. “You okay?”

Sherlock was caught off guard. Did he still have -? No, he was fine. “Yes, of course.” Sherlock said, as his scattered thoughts attempted to come together into their usual uniformity.

Sherlock washed out the inside of two of the hotel’s mugs with a bit of the hot coffee, and then poured out two cups of black coffee. Sherlock handed John his mug, then sat on the edge of his own bed. The pair sipped their coffee quietly for a few moments.

“How is it?” Sherlock asked, breaking what was an unusually awkward silence.

“Good – good, yeah,” John answered, also feeling uncharacteristically out of sorts. He was unsure how to categorize his current mood; everything very much _felt_ like the typical ‘morning after,’ but he couldn’t quite figure out which memory of the night before he wanted to assign his guilt to.

Sherlock nodded. “Very nice.”

The silence continued, then Sherlock spoke again.

“What are you talking about? This is terrible. I’m not entirely sure it is coffee.” Sherlock said as he put his mug down on the nightstand, frowning.

“Never trust the coffee from a cheap hotel,” John said as he stood up, drinking the rest of his mug in one gulp. “It’ll make you suffer more than any vampire.”

“I wouldn’t know from experience, but I appreciate the sentiment,” Sherlock answered. “What next?”

John opened his phone. “Nothing from the others yet. I’m surprised you haven’t asked about the papers yet.”

Sherlock paused, and quickly ran through his memories of the night before: checking in, reviewing notes, John’s lips on his skin – no, best not to think on that too long – the club, sweat, smoke... and the vampire with notes in his pocket. _Oh_. The rest was a blur.

“How did we get home?” Sherlock asked, baffled that he couldn’t remember much of anything.

“Taxi. You blacked out pretty soon after we got outside,” John said, smiling despite himself. “On that note...” He tossed Sherlock a few of the snacks he had purchased the night before. “Get your strength up.”

Sherlock put them aside. “Unimportant. What did the notes say?”

“Not much of anything,” John answered, taking the crumpled paper out of the desk drawer. “Here.” He handed two folded sheets of notebook paper to Sherlock.

Covered in numbers, Sherlock found that the sheet did seem fairly unhelpful, at first glance.

“Useless,” John murmured as he pulled a sweater on overtop of his shirt.

Sherlock raised a finger, requesting silence, and John watched as the detective put both sheets of paper flat on the bed beside him. Staring intently at them, he ran through every code and numerical classification system he could remember. Gradually, a pattern appeared, and he requested a pen from John. Not long after, he smiled, and handed the sheets back to John.

Circled in red pen were various number combinations. John looked at it for a second, but didn’t find himself any more illuminated than he had been five minutes earlier. “Sorry?” He asked.

Sherlock offered a dramatic sigh, which quickly gave way to the smile that always seemed to appear whenever he was about to explain something _very clever_ to his flatmate.

“Coordinates, and the timetable for a bus,” he answered happily, pointing at various numbers on the pages.

“Coordinates for what?” John asked, quickly taking the paper back and trying to scan it for anything he could recognize.

Sherlock pulled out his phone and started typing. “Hm,” he said. “They pull up a park. That’s hardly helpful.”

“Maybe worth trying anyways,” John said.

“Perhaps,” Sherlock answered, disappointed. “And the bus led to the club, so no need worrying about that, either.”

“No, I guess not. Might as well get going on the coordinates while it’s still light out, though, eh?”

“Fine,” Sherlock answered, glancing at the sheets of paper in John’s hands once more before putting his phone down. “How does my neck look?”

John glanced up at him briefly, then back down quickly at the paper. “Good as new, you’re just a bit pale. Want to have a shower? I’ll get some proper coffee and meet you outside.”

Sherlock nodded and stood. “I’ll check out.”

Avoiding eye contact, the pair went to their separate tasks and started readying themselves to leave. John, still more on edge than usual, readied his gun and packed up the rest of his weapons. Glancing at himself in the mirror, he deemed himself more or less presentable – if perhaps a bit flushed – and exited the room.

By the time Sherlock made his way outside, John was sitting on the curb of the road, two paper cups of coffee from the chain across the street waiting beside him. He handed one cup to Sherlock as he flipped through his phone.

“Ready to go?”

“Yep,” John said, standing up and shaking his jacket out, covering the sidearm on his waist. “Is the map still open on your phone?”

Sherlock opened his phone, and began looking around to get his bearings. “I may have chosen the quietest hotel in the city – you're welcome. I don’t think any cabs have passed this hotel in the last decade.”

“Public transport, then?” Before Sherlock could grimace, John added, “I know how you enjoy that.”

Sherlock didn’t bother answering John with more than a huff, and started walking towards the nearest underground entrance. By the time they had finished their drinks, they were well on their way to what Sherlock’s map promised was the correct location. Twenty minutes longer, and they were on a new street, in a new area, attempting to locate the park they were searching for.

“Are we going in the right direction?” John asked, his echoing him with a rumble; he regretted not having one of the granola bars he had tossed at Sherlock.

“Two blocks west, then north one more,” Sherlock said, pointing forward. “On the other side of that grey building.”

“Good,” John replied.

The two continued to walk, until Sherlock remembered the thought that he had pressed to the back of his mind. “About last night,” he began. John glanced at him, then back to the road.

“Yeah?”

“You mentioned that I blacked out. Did I do anything… out of character?” His eyes flickered to John, trying to gauge his reaction.

“Not exactly,” John said. “Nothing you haven’t done before.”

“That could mean many things.”

John smiled. “On the ride back you tried to convince the cabbie that he had a lost twin brother somewhere. Then you nearly vomited on him, so – all things considered – it could have been worse.”

To distract Sherlock from the annoyance he was now feeling with himself, John continued. “Next time I’ll leave you with a little more blood. Try to make the lightheadedness hit you less like a bottle of vodka, and more like a glass of wine.”

“I appreciate it,” Sherlock said. “Next time?”

The pair neared the street where they were due to turn.

“I mean…” John wasn’t entirely sure what he had meant. “Poor choice of words, never mind.”

“I don’t mind, you know,” Sherlock said.

“Have you noticed this weather? Very cloudy,” John said, looking up.

“If only for the sake of future experiments, you’re welcome to feed on me whenever you so choose.”

“I think it might rain,” John said, holding out a palm and distancing himself from Sherlock.

“You’re being childish,” the detective said, catching up with a few long strides.

“Fine with me,” John muttered, before stopping abruptly.

"And then we fell asleep in the same bed," Sherlock said, stating it as a fact.

John opened his mouth, then closed it. "We didn't fall asleep that way - you sleepwalk. Check your map.”

Sherlock pulled out his phone, and John looked around. Down the street, a man was watering the shrubs outside his home; beyond him, two women walked slowly across the road and into a café. Were it not for the light fog that hung around the streetlamps, the quiet street would be fairly pleasant. The fog, and the possibility that there were slumbering vampires nearby, John reminded himself. 

“I don’t see a park,” he said, reading the signs on the shops across the road, which all seemed to indicate that they were closed for business, or for sale. “Anything green, really.”

Sherlock looked up from his phone and gestured towards a narrow laneway between two of the houses to their left. “Through there.” John had to step back slightly to notice where Sherlock was pointing; though it became obvious once he had looked at it for a few moments, the space between the two buildings was nearly imperceptible at first glance.

Leading the way, Sherlock looked back to make sure that John was following him, then slowed down as soon as the lane widened enough for both men to walk together. After what felt like an unusually long time walking through the dark alley, the pair came into a large space, bordered on all sides by the windowless brick walls of the buildings around it. In the center stood a barn, its painted exterior faded and cracked.

John brushed his thumb against his gun to remind himself that it was available if needed, and began to walk around the left hand side of the building. Sherlock took the right, and upon seeing that there was no one hiding behind the barn, they returned to the front.

“A barn in the middle of the city,” John said, bemused. “Was this even on the map?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, but maps are rarely as powerful as the human eye.” Sherlock pulled a pair of leather gloves out of his breast pocket and pulled them on. Shall we?”

John pushed at the heavy barn doors, to see if they would give. Not feeling any movement, he began to throw himself into the door with his shoulder. After two solid shoves the old door gave way, and John fell in to the building.

The fog, thicker here than it had been on the road, made the interior of the barn dark enough that Sherlock couldn’t see where John had landed until his eyes had adjusted slightly. Before he could see his companion, he heard him.

“Are you spitting out dirt?” Sherlock asked, once he had placed the sound.

“I’m not particularly graceful today.”

Sherlock grinned. “No, apparently not.” He pulled a small flashlight out of his jacket and clicked it on, the light illuminating only a small area of the barn. Sherlock directed it at John, trying to follow the sound of his coughs.

John held up a small wax cylinder. “I landed on a candle, too. Today is not my day.” John pulled out his own light and directed at the walls. As best as the pair could make out, it seemed as though the barn was more or less square, with a small loft and two ladders in its far right corner. Various instruments littered the wet ground, though none that offered any obvious explanations as to why the vampire in the club would have the barn’s coordinates written down.

When John looked back towards Sherlock, he saw the man rubbing dirt between his fingers.

“Someone was here recently,” Sherlock said, holding up a second candle. “Eight people, four bodies. Dragged, of course, they didn’t walk here themselves.”

“And some more candles,” John said, pointing his flashlight at the ground.

“Your thoughts, doctor?”

“Smells like rotting flesh,” John said, face screwed up in a frown. “We’re veering directly into not-good-very-bad territory.”

“Yes, and that,” Sherlock said, brushing dirt off what appeared to be a fragment of bone. “But I thought the smell was a given.”

“No,” John said, “Vampires don’t decay, and they don’t generally bother burying the humans they kill.” He ran his flashlight over the ground once more. “If there were a body here, we’d see it.”

Sherlock removed a glove, and ran his bare hand over the dirt, and then held it in front of the flashlight. “Very bad indeed,” Sherlock said, then turned his hand towards John. “The ground isn’t soaked with water.” He wiped his palm on his handkerchief, and left a trail of red.

“Terrific,” John said with a groan. “I was beginning to think we’d followed the wrong coordinates, and the barn was just a strange coincidence.” He knelt down picked up another candle, turning it over before tossing it aside. Sherlock continued his survey of the dirt, as John began to brush dirt off of a nearby rock.

“Any chance you could grab a couple of samples of this dirt? We could see if we can get a more accurate -”

John’s voice was immediately cut off as a hand burst from the ground and grabbed him by the neck, pinning him to the ground. As he gasped, the body attached to the pale arm rose above the dirt and pulled him closer. The creature, whose fangs dripped blood from its blackened gums, gradually freed itself.

Sherlock turned towards the noise of the snarling creature, which snapped at the air next to John’s neck. John, rapidly losing air, tried to avoid being bitten. Once Sherlock willed himself to move, he lunged towards the arms of the monster, trying to pull them from John. However, whenever he came close to achieving a solid grip, the skin beneath his fingers would pull away in grey layers. If he had more time to consider the situation, Sherlock likely would have been repulsed. As it was, he could only focus on John, whose movements were slowing.

Sherlock pulled John’s gun off of him, and directed two shots into the creature. Despite taking off nearly half of its head, the monster didn’t slow. Sherlock desperately tried to pry at its clenched hands. Finally, he was able to pull its hands off just enough to give John some air. John nodded to his right, and Sherlock noticed a thin metal pole lying on the ground. He lunged for it, and immediately returned to John.

“Ready?” He asked. John nodded as best he could, and pushed away from the creature. Sherlock immediately stepped in with the pole, and pressed it against the monster’s neck. Despite feeling nails dig into his wrists, he continued to press downward until he felt skin separate. He closed his eyes and continued downward until the pole lay flat against the ground. He looked into the unmoving face below him, stood, and pushed the head away harder than he intended.

The head rolled across the dirt, slowing to a stop near the entrance to the barn. John walked over to it, and turned it over with the tip of his shoe.

“Dead.” John said breathlessly, his voice rough from being choked.

“Thoroughly,” Sherlock answered, kneeling down and gingerly picking up his phone, which had fallen into the dirt during the struggle.

Before Sherlock could pose a very similar question, John asked, “What in the hell was that?”

“You don’t know?” Sherlock replied, surprised.

“Not a clue,” he said, crouching down beside the body and pressing down on its chest gently. The grey skin sagged and then collapsed inward. John removed his hand. “Not a vampire, not a human.”

John thought for a minute. “Four bodies, you said?”

Sherlock blinked. “Oh, for Christ’s sake.”

“I’m in no mood to do that again, so,” John said, and pulled two flasks out of a hidden pocket in his jacket.

“I bit early, isn’t it?”

“It’s holy water,” John clarified. “Spread as much of it around as you can. I’m not sure if these things are following vampire rules, but it can’t hurt.” Sherlock followed John’s instructions, and took the interior of the building while John poured drops of water around the perimeter, making sure to soak the ground by the entrance.

Both flasks empty, John and Sherlock stood near the door and looked over the barn once more. “In theory, that should keep anything supernatural underground, where it belongs.” John immediately made a mental note to contact his network as soon as possible - he hadn't secured the site particularly thoroughly.

John and Sherlock stared at the separated parts of the decapitated corpse in silence, until the sharp ringing of John’s mobile phone brought them back to reality. John glanced at the caller ID, then immediately picked up.

“Greg? Are you guys all right?”

“Fine, we’re all fine,” the DI answered. “Quick question – how fast can you get back to Baker Street?”

John paused, and glanced at Sherlock. Overall, they were unharmed, though they were a bit dirty. “Fairly quickly, why?”

“You and Sherlock are needed.”

“At Baker Street? Isn’t the top floor blown to hell?” John asked.

“Oh, it is,” Lestrade confirmed. “But you’re going to want to see this.”

“See what?”

Lestrade laughed. “Apparently, you have guests.”


	15. Chapter 15

_“Remember, my friend, that knowledge is stronger than memory, and we should not trust the weaker.”_

_  
_

“Run!” Mycroft shouted, louder this time. He fell to the ground, his fangs bared. He clasped his head between his hands as a blinding pain overtook him. Through his blurred vision, he saw Lestrade turn around once more, pausing momentarily by the entrance to the warehouse. Molly pulled him out, and with a loud slam the door was locked.

White spots clouded Mycroft’s vision, and he felt sure that some force beyond his control was moving his body. More worryingly, something on the edges of his mind seemed to be inching forward, out of the darkness, taking it over. In his last moments of conscious thought, Mycroft thought several things; the thought that overwhelmed all the others was how desperately he wished he had told Sherlock what was going on. For all of the gentle prodding he directed at his brother, there was an underlying affection. Mycroft didn’t want Sherlock to suffer the knowledge that he had become a vampire - however, he also didn’t want to die alone. Again.

The darkness that crept into his mind, willing his muscles to move against his own will, slowly overwhelmed each of the man’s senses. As though in a dream, he watched as his hands clawed against the dark clay of the floor, pushing him upwards until he stood. His eyes blank and his expression slack, Mycroft looked out of his bodily prison into the darkness.

“Hello, child,” a soft voice rasped out of the darkness. “You are needed. We have been waiting.”

 _I refuse to kill_ , Mycroft thought to himself, screaming in the part of his mind he still controlled.

“Then do not,” the voice in the darkness answered. “Fight against it.”

It felt as though chains, ragged and dragging against his skin, were pulling him forward, making him curl his hands into claws, his nails piercing his palms.

Mycroft was unsure whether he screamed aloud, or whether the screams were only in his mind. Regardless, the other man – creature – seemed to hear it.

“Good,” he said, a hint of joy in his ancient voice. “Do not be so easily cowed.”

“No,” Mycroft said, finally pulling his head back. At first, his movements were slow, as though he consciously needed to think through each twitch of his muscles. As he gradually brought each of his limbs back under control, he moved more fluidly. Soon, he stood almost casually, his posture less rigid. He still felt the force of the other man’s will, the external force that attempted to override his bodily autonomy, but he was able to keep it at bay.

“Strong,” the other man stated. He came forward in the light. Tall, with pointed fingernails and teeth, the vampire opposite Mycroft could pass for any age between eighty and eternal. Thin skin covered dark, still veins, which crisscrossed his bald head. His deep, bloodshot eyes captured Mycroft’s and analyzed him.

Mycroft didn’t dare run, or move at all. He was not yet sure of his ability to maintain control over his body.

“I am so very glad to have you with us.”

 

* * *

 

By the time Molly had stopped running, Lestrade was already panting for air, and seemed as though he was one breath away from total collapse.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in better shape, as a detective?” Molly asked him in between her own deep breaths.

“No,” Greg said, sounding as offended as he could manage, given the circumstances. “It’s mostly” - a brief coughing fit - “desk work.”

Molly snickered, then fell against the wall behind her, sliding down it to rest on the tips of her toes. “Oh, Christ. What was that? Mycroft’s a vampire too now?”

“Maybe we should just accept that _everyone_ is a vampire, besides us,” Lestrade said, as he turned and sat beside Molly.

“Except for Sherlock,” she answered.

“You don’t think so? He’s pale. Tall.”

“Ah, the defining trait of vampires,” Molly said, smiling. “Height.”

“Fine, fine, but the paleness,” Lestrade countered, looking at her with an eyebrow raised.

Molly looked back at him for a moment, then at the building across from them.

“John has more of a tan, and we already know he’s… whatever he is. I don’t think that theory fits.”

“Hm.” Lestrade was silent. After a moment, he spoke again. “You seem to be accepting all of this a lot faster than me.”

Molly plucked at a loose thread on her coat. “I trust Sherlock, I suppose.”

“Well, yeah,” Lestrade replied, “So do I. John, too. But this kind of tests the bounds of blind faith, don’t you think?”

Molly gave a short laugh. “Can I tell you something – if you promise not to arrest me?”

“Depends what you tell me,” Lestrade answered.

Molly shook her head. “Nothing you haven’t seen already. I shot a vampire earlier. Only a couple of days ago, actually,” she looked at Greg to note his reaction, then resumed fussing with one of the buttons on her coat. “Then watched its corpse dissolve into nothing but blood and teeth.”

The DI was expressionless.

“That’s enough to make anyone willing to play follow-the-leader, blind or not,” she added.

There was silence for a while. “I guess so. Sorry, Molly.” Lestrade hoped that covered all of the "sorrys" he hadn’t said – ‘sorry you’re caught up in this. Sorry I didn’t ask you out at that Christmas party. Sorry you’re being chased by vampires with me.’

Eventually, he spoke. “Where are we?”

Molly looked around. “I have no idea.”

“Bloody Wales,” Lestrade muttered, then stood again, holding out a hand to pull Molly up with him. “We can’t wait here.”

“We should go back,” Molly said, verbalizing what the detective inspector had been thinking from the moment they left the warehouse. “Mycroft could need our help.”

“Right,” he affirmed. “He spooked us a bit, but we don’t know what went wrong. And he’s Sherlock’s brother, after all.”

Pulling out their weapons, the pair slowly walked back in the direction they had come from. “If he’s like the others – like the other vampires, the ones that attacked us… Will we shoot him?”

Lestrade readjusted his grip on his gun. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

The trip back to the warehouse seemed to take much longer than the run from it, and as they drew closer, neither Greg nor Molly was quite confident they knew what they would find.

Entering the warehouse, the pair found that the lights were still dimly lit, throwing shadows over the empty interior. Mycroft was nowhere to be seen, nor was there any evidence that he had been there. Cautiously, Greg led the way into the centre of the warehouse, near where they had taken off running. There were a few fresh marks in the dirt, but neither of them could be certain that they hadn’t made the tracks themselves.

 “Mycroft?” Molly called out, turning slowly. She walked to Greg’s side and pushed aside a rock with her foot. “I don’t see anything.”

“Me neither,” Greg replied, pursing his lips. Something felt wrong – years of work on the force had fine tuned his intuition.

As though on cue, the door behind them closed and latched. The pair spun around, but saw only a flash of black. Were it not for that, they may have written it off as wind.

 “Who’s there?” Greg called as he looked all around himself, then stopped and groaned. “Why do I ask? It’s always vampires.” Molly readied her weapon and tried to use the faint light to see into the shadows.

“I wouldn’t rather avoid guns today, Miss Hooper,” an impossibly old voice said from the darkness; it was soft, but could be heard as though the vampire were in front of them. “We are not a threat.”

An old man walked forward, cane in hand. A younger man holding a gun flanked him, as did and a tall, blonde woman in a pristine white suit.

Greg didn’t lower his weapon, instead focusing on the man who held the gun. Molly was not aiming at anyone in particular, instead trying to find the nearest exit, and wondering why she and Greg had agreed to come back.

The older vampire sighed, and made a waving gesture at the man to his left. They made eye contact, and the gun was dropped to the ground.

“A gesture of good faith,” he added, analyzing Greg and Molly in turn. Slowly, he walked over to a large, broken marble slab that seemed to have once belonged to a tomb. He ran his hand across the engraving – ‘DRACULA.’ He wondered, briefly, who had found it and brought it here; he himself had never had any luck finding it in the Carpathians. It made no matter – it was only a relic, a long-forgotten piece of rock.

“Who are you?” Molly asked, glancing at Greg, who was gritting his teeth.

The vampire turned back to them, pulled a handkerchief from the jacket of his suit, and wiped the dust from his hands.

“My name is George,” he answered. “We have a mutual friend in one Mr. John Watson, I believe – and we must return to London at once.”

 

* * *

 

The moment Sherlock and John received the call from Lestrade, they set out. With some reluctance, they closed the barn and hoped for the best; John made a note to come back when he had more free time and ensure that everything that was dead in the building stayed that way.

The pair walked until they reached the nearest major road, then flagged down a taxi. Sherlock muttered something to the driver – probably something about a bribe, but John couldn’t be sure – and the car was soon speeding off in the direction of Baker Street. Neither of them had much of an appetite for conversation; they were both too busy thinking to communicate. After some time, they pulled up outside 221B. From the road, the flat looked all right. The windows of the top floor had been blown out, and the dark edges of the window frames seemed to hint at a fire, but the exterior seemed remarkably unscathed.

“I thought it would look worse,” John said, eyeing the plywood boards that covered the windows of the sitting room.

Sherlock seemed pleased. “I tried to isolate the damage to the southeast corner of your room. All flash, nothing substantial – just enough to alert the Met.”

“It couldn’t have been your room?” John asked with a sigh.

“No?” Sherlock replied, nonplussed.

The pair began to walk up to the door, both glancing down the street to see if they were being observed. It was early morning, and the area was already beginning to become populated.

“I didn’t bother to ask – I must be used to this sort of thing – why were you rigging the flat with explosives?” John said as he pushed open the front door and began to take off his coat. The floor above was quiet, save for what sounded like Lestrade speaking to someone.

 “An experiment,” Sherlock said. “If it worked, I’ll let you know.”

He led the way upstairs, and immediately took the second flight up to John’s room. John, yawning, entered the sitting room, and had to blink for a few moments to adjust to the darkness. Black curtains had been thrown over the drapes across the windows. The kitchen was equally dark, and in his haste to see Greg, John nearly tripped over a footstool.

“Good day, Doctor Watson,” a soft, scratchy voice murmured.

John, just catching his balance, nearly fell backwards. “ _George_?” He asked, incredulous.

The faint outlines of four people could be seen in the gloom that hung heavily over the room.

John laughed in surprise. “Christ, I haven’t seen you in ages. How are you? Is that you, Charlie?” He squinted at another man about his height, who was leaning into the far corner of the room.

John walked towards a light switch before both Charles and Lestrade called out to stop him. He paused, his hand above the switch, looking at them wonderingly.

“My eyes are not what they once were,” George said, apologetic. “Particularly during daylight hours. These old bones are not used to being above ground at such a time.”

“Right,” John said, pulling his hand back. His eyes were adjusting quickly enough, but knew that Greg was probably not quite as adept at seeing in the darkness. Greg, John noticed, seemed remarkably at ease sitting next to George.

“Perhaps a candle?” George asked. “Caroline attempted to find one, but was not successful.”

“Caroline!” John exclaimed, and finally made out the face of the fourth figure, who stood to George’s right. A tall, morose-looking woman, Caroline simply nodded. Undaunted, John moved forward and captured her in a hug, which she relaxed into, offering a soft smile.

“It’s good to see you, Doctor,” the woman said with a slight Dutch accent. She did not tolerate hugs from very many people, but made an exception for John, whose fondness for her seemed to be contagious.

Backing away from her, John looked at Greg. “How are you? Where’s Molly? Mycroft?” He brought the reunion with his old friends to a close as more pressing matters came to mind.

“Molly’s fine,” Lestrade answered firmly, more confident than John had seen him in days. “At the British library. I’m sure George will explain,” he said, gesturing at the man adjacent to him. John didn’t press further on about Mycroft’s absence.

John nodded, and began to head towards one of the bookcases in the kitchen, opening a drawer and pulling out a stack of candles and candlesticks, lighting them and carrying them back into the sitting room. He could hear Sherlock coming downstairs.

As Sherlock came through the door, John immediately turned and said, “more vampires!” brightly, trying to set the mood.

Sherlock glanced over the figures, who were now illuminated by candlelight, and rolled his eyes. “Of course.”

He walked over to the desk and set down three small surveillance cameras, all in a tangle of wires. He lifted the strap of his computer bag off his shoulder and put it down in one of the chairs, pulling out his laptop.

John gestured at the three newcomers before them. “This is George, one of the heads of the Council. He’s controls vampire affairs in Central Europe. Caroline, she’s his right hand, and Charles; he served for a few years in Afghanistan with me. Two vampires and a human,” he said. As an afterthought, he added, “Well, a very old human, I mean. George’s mate. How old are you, now, Charles?”

 “One hundred and nine in May,” the man answered with a smile, pushing a lock of dark hair off his forehead.

“The wonders of vampire blood,” John said with a grin, looking at Sherlock.

“Where’s Molly?” he asked, giving a cursory glance to the three people he had just been introduced to. He flipped open his laptop and loosened one of the wires connected to a camera.

“Library. I was just waiting for you to come down to find out why,” John said.

“George sent her off,” Lestrade answered. “He gave her access to the special collections.”

“You put her in control of central ops?” John asked George, smiling.

“Most of my people are out of town,” George answered. “We’ll make do with what we have.”

Sherlock, who was plugging one of the cameras into the USB drive of his laptop, seemed to realize at that moment that his brother was missing.

“Is Mycroft with her?”

“Ah, Mycroft. No, I’ve assigned him to something much more vital. Your brother has, ostensibly, gone to find his maker,” George said with a wink.

“His what?” Sherlock asked sharply.

John abruptly dug the fingernails of his clenched fist into palm.

“His -” George paused and shifted in his chair, grasping the head of his cane once more. He looked at John. “John Hamish Watson, do tell me that Sherlock has been made aware of his brother’s condition.”

John took a step from Sherlock, whose eyes were wide as he drew his own conclusions. “It hadn’t come up yet.”

“Hadn’t come up yet,” Sherlock hissed. “Is my brother a vampire?”

“Well, strictly speaking…” John said, “Yes.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me sooner?” Sherlock asked, turning on John.

Caroline looked between the two men, ready to step in if she had to.

“Your brother made me promise not to,” John replied, hands raised in a gesture of surrender. “It didn’t seem relevant.”

“Didn’t seem…?” Sherlock stepped towards John.

Interrupting him, George said, “Sherlock, please, I would really rather not see our dear Doctor Watson maimed tonight, without good reason. If you must hate someone, hate me; I turned him.”

“That was you?” John asked, surprised. It wasn’t often that a vampire as old as George would share his own blood to turn a human. It hadn’t occurred in the last few centuries, in any case.

“Yes. Though I was not sure that I had been successful until tonight. There was a bit of a…” He pondered the encounter for a moment. “A bit of a _competition_ over the soul of the elder Mr. Holmes.”

“Explain?” John asked, throwing a quick glance towards Sherlock.

“When one controls the government, they control the police,” George answered simply. “As the good Mr. Lestrade would, I am sure, agree, there is a great deal of value in keeping the police force from becoming aware of vampires. It would cause so much stress, so much discrimination.” He looked towards Greg. “So very much paperwork.”

“And my brother?” Sherlock said, getting impatient.

“As I was saying,” George replied, smoothly turning his cold gaze towards Sherlock. “When one controls the government, they control the police. And in order to control the government, one must control Mycroft Holmes.”

Charles picked George’s bag up off the floor, and gingerly lifted it onto the old vampire’s lap.

“On the night I went to find Mycroft in his Kensington office – to discuss the coming war, and to sway him to our side – I sensed the presence of another vampire. I could feel him on the other side of the building, feel his power equal to mine. Yet I did not know him. I knew he was there for the same reason that I was.”

“Someone as old and powerful as you – that’s an awfully short list of candidates, isn’t it?” John asked.

“Indeed,” George replied. “Though not all vampires as old as me are as active. Many stay hidden, in crypts or in the shadows, feeding only when necessary. There is a certain standard of vampire, the old standard, which still hides in crumbling castles in faraway lands and inaccessible mountains. Such was the type that sought Mycroft Holmes while I did.

“As we entered the building, opposing sides, I felt him pause, and knew he sensed me too. Immediately, it became a race to see who could kill Mr. Holmes first. Sherlock, I do hope you understand that my intent was solely to speak with your brother; a discussion among friends. However, knowing that our enemies were also aware of Mycroft’s unique set of skills, the circumstances made it so that he had to be claimed. If I did not turn him, the others would have. And that, I am afraid, I could not allow to happen.”

Sherlock was silent, his arms still crossed. Short of making him a hot cup of tea, John wasn’t sure what the protocol was for situations such as these.

“By the time I reached your brother’s office, the other vampire had already cut into the man’s neck. I did not know whether or not he had given Mycroft any of his blood. While your brother lay bleeding on the floor, as surprised as I imagine he ever had been in his life, I was able to distract the other vampire, and drive a stake through him in the confusion.”

Caroline flinched, and George shook his head as he spoke to her. “I am not opposed to such actions, Caroline. There is no shame in choosing the weapon a human would choose, when it is the most efficient tool.” He looked back towards John and Sherlock.

“At that point, Mycroft was nearly gone. I had very little time to give him my own blood, and bring him to his home. As I buried him beneath the floorboards, I did not know whether the other vampire’s blood would turn him, or whether I was fast enough to turn him with my own.” He leaned back. “Now we know.”

“Great,” Sherlock said, monotone. “Where is he?”

“Taking advantage of the confusion,” John said, speaking softly. “Christ – that’s what you’ve done, isn’t it?” He looked at George, who was expressionless. “Will that work?”

“Yes,” George replied.

Sherlock looked like he was about to hit someone. Quickly, John explained.

“Mycroft could belong to us, or he could belong to the other guys, right?” He waited for Sherlock to nod. “We know George turned Mycroft, but no one else does. If Mycroft were to show up at their home base, seemingly because he felt drawn to it…”

“He’s a double agent,” Sherlock said, making the connection, genuinely pleased for the first time that morning. “Oh, that’s terrific.”

Greg scrunched up his face; Sherlock noted his second-hand embarrassment and sighed heavily.

“I mean, it’s terrible, and my mother will be unhappy, but it’s a great plan. Mycroft thrives under pressure, certainly better than anyone else I’ve ever met. I'm sure he'll be able to track down our opponents without much trouble - they aren't exactly keeping to themselves.”

John noted to himself that it was the first time he had ever heard Sherlock offer a compliment to his brother that wasn’t backhanded.

“Good,” John said. “That’s one thing sorted, then. It’s nice to see someone else has a plan. So, why did you call us back?”

George pulled a map from his bag, and handed it to John. Sherlock came closer to John and peered over his shoulder as he unfolded the map. On it, different cities in Hungary and Romania were circled. John raised an eyebrow and looked at George questioningly.

“The rest of the Council has spent the last several years in these areas investigating unusually high rates of murder; bodies drained of blood without a mark. For all the luck we’ve had, we might as well have been chasing ghosts.”

“That’s what’s been happening here,” John said.

“Quite right. Caroline, Charles, and I arrived early last week to resume our investigations. We left the remainder of our troops in Romania, which, it seems, was for the best. For the first time in months we received a lead.”

“Oh?”

“A call,” George said. “As we were flying west, Jane was flying east. By the time we landed, she had left a message on Caroline’s phone – she had tracked Tom to Bistrita. In light of that, we have assembled our forces, and hope to end this once and for all.”

Sherlock was quiet, and looked between John and the map.

“That can’t be right,” John said, confused.

“I’m afraid it is,” George said, continuing on. “I know you thought he was dead – so did we all – but that doesn’t seem to be the case. You know as well as I do that these deaths have been suspiciously organized, and whatever organization responsible for them would inevitably attract Tom, and others of his breed.”

“No, I know – Tom and the others are absolutely involved,” John insisted. “I mean that I know he’s dead. I killed him a few days ago.”

George didn’t speak.

“You’re sure?” Caroline confirmed. Charles moved forward to George’s side.

“With my bare hands,” John said. “Yes, I’m sure. Did any of you actually speak to Jane in person? Did she just leave a message? You’ve assembled _everyone_ in Romania?”

The group was silent.

John looked at Sherlock. “We’re a step behind.”


	16. Chapter 16

_“He is finite, though he is powerful to do much harm and suffers not as we do. But we are strong, each in our purpose, and we are all more strong together.”_

Molly was by no means unfamiliar with libraries, but it was not often that she had free time to spend in the British Library examining its extensive collections. It was an even less frequent occurrence that she was allowed access to the magnificent rare book collection that the library housed. During her present visit, she had bypassed the rare book section entirely when she was brought to the basement of the building through hidden doors and false walls.

Comparatively, the Lindisfarne Gospels were less well guarded than the wing she was currently sitting in. Old books lined utilitarian steel shelves, and ancient manuscripts filled light- and temperature-controlled drawers. Bibles, tattered and bound in what looked suspiciously like flesh, were too numerous to count, while relatively new books containing information about vampires took up an entire wall to her right. Upon entering the room, Molly had even spotted a copy of Twilight. The library’s collection of vampire lore was nothing if not comprehensive.

Despite the extensive collection of old texts, the rest of the room was a shining beacon of modern technology. Molly had settled into a desk at the center of the room, with two computers monitors and more electronic equipment than she had names for on the desk in front of her. She had her own computer as well, and began to lay out the notes she had copied from John the last time she had seen him.

She wasn’t quite sure when she would see John and Sherlock again. The vampires she and Greg had met were polite – very informative, and very to speak with John. However, as soon as they had reassured the humans that they weren’t a threat, Molly and Greg were quickly shuttled off in separate directions – Molly to the heart of their information centre, and Greg back to Baker Street. She was still a bit startled by how abruptly everything had begun to unfold, and tried to reflect on her last few hours in order to settle herself.

Charles, the human companion of the vampires who had escorted her to the library, was eager to inform her that he was part of a group of peacekeepers. He seemed sympathetic to the fact that most of the vampires she had met up until that point had tried to kill her, and hoped that it hadn’t prejudiced her against vampires too much. Although she had inferred as much from John, Charles had clearly stated that he was part of the British branch of the Vampire Council, which oversaw the activities of immortals throughout the world. As he brought her to the library, he detailed everything that John hadn’t, particularly the role his father played as head of the Council. Apparently, her friend’s involvement in vampire politics had begun in childhood.

Once Charles was assured that she had settled in to the room comfortably, he left her. His directions were simple, requesting that she stay in the library and remain on call for the rest of them. She did not attempt to protest this, knowing well enough that her strength lay in gathering information, not in killing vampires. The more she thought about it, the more she was grateful she had been given an easy way out, a chance to be helpful but not at risk.

Molly started up the PC in front of her and opened up a map application and a lunar calendar, not sure if she would need either. She double-checked that the heavy, old rotary phone to her right was functional, and prepared herself to examine every book title in the room in order to learn what she kind of information she had access to. She was ready. 

* * *

 Back at Baker Street, John had started pacing.

“It’s safe to say there’s nothing in Romania,” he said, anger rising as his cheeks began to flush. His eyes were unable to focus on anything in particular as he tried to grasp the implications of what was happening.

“That’s not necessarily true, maybe the rest of the information is fine even if the lead is bad,” Lestrade interjected, familiar with false leads, and also particularly keen to get back to the Yard with some kind of solid information.

“Your friend Gregory is correct,” George replied, leaning back and staring at John with his cool, grey eyes. “Any number of things could await us in Romania, regardless of whether or not Jane was correct in her assessment of the situation.

“No, definitely not,” John said, shaking his head. “Jane and I were texting regularly up until I saw her in person. She stopped responding immediately after we left; something was wrong. I didn’t have time to look into it, because why the hell would England be under attack after all this time? I’m an idiot, a bloody idiot,” he muttered bitterly, pulling the map towards himself.

“The four of us will leave at sunset,” George said, speaking slowly and deliberately, clearly intending his suggestion to serve as an order rather than a request. Sherlock and Greg were not expected to join the group, but John was evidently expected to obey and depart.

Sherlock still hadn’t spoken, and was not used to that change of pace. However, he also recognized when John was in the middle of formulating a plan. Seeing his flatmate work through his ideas felt excruciatingly slow, but for once Sherlock knew better than to comment on it. Eventually, John looked back up at George, and raised himself up to his full height.

“George, you know I respect you more than anything – you were a father to me when my own family couldn’t be there. In all other circumstances I am content to follow your orders, but this has gone on too long.”

Sherlock detected the faintest hint of uncertainty in his friend’s voice, and then it disappeared. Both Lestrade and himself seemed to understand that this was the first time John had willingly chosen to disregard the wishes of an ancient vampire. 

“One hundred years ago, the Council convened in this very city, and granted Abraham Van Helsing and all of his descendants the exclusive right to assemble the Head Families, and direct them with supreme authority. I’m calling it – bring the army back in.”

Charles moved towards John abruptly, correctly recognizing this as a challenge to George’s authority.

“ _Sit down_ ,” John said, baring his fangs at Charles and emphasizing each word. John didn’t notice when the fangs had come out to begin with, but he realized that he appeared more menacing than intended.

“The Families are not here,” Caroline murmured, voice steady and not betraying the very deep worry that everyone else in the room seemed to feel.

“I know that,” John said, still irritated but quickly gaining composure as he quickly developed a plan for the future. “Getting them all here will have to wait, and I’ll need you three to deal with getting everyone back from Romania as soon as possible. But, I can get military men, good ones, like I was. They’re in Britain, and they’ll come in the meantime.”

George spoke softly to John, and although neither Sherlock nor Lestrade heard what he said, they gathered it was something dismissive.

“Of course not,” John said simply. “They don’t take your calls. They’ll take mine.”

“You’re betting an awful lot of lives on the possibility that the key to these murders is in Britain,” Charles said, doing his best not to step any closer to John.

“The key to these murders isn’t in Romania, Charles,” John said, growing firmer in his convictions. “I would know if it was.”

Charles didn’t argue, but it was clear even to Lestrade that he disagreed.

“We’re going to review the security cameras and regroup,” John said, pointing at Sherlock’s cameras. “The three of you can sort out bringing me my army back, and I’ll call you when I have a plan.”

Before John could ask George if he agreed, he was interrupted.

“As you wish,” George said softly as he stood. He could barely be heard by the humans in the room, but his tone of cool, measured rage was unmistakeable. In the hundreds of years George had been a vampire, he had never had to take orders from a human. Although he was willing to abide by Abraham Van Helsing’s contract, he found it deeply unsettling. As though walking on air, George swept out of the room, followed by Charles – whose emotions were made obvious by the look he gave John – and Caroline, who seemed more uncomfortable than anything else.

John’s posture remained tense until he sensed all three bodies had exited the building. As soon as the door was shut, John sat back down into his chair and exhaled, the fight going out of him. He closed his eyes and groaned.

“Christ, what was _that_ about?” Lestrade asked, walking over to the windows and pushing aside several layers of drapes. He watched as the vampires, covered by heavy fabrics and umbrellas, stepped into the car that had originally brought himself and Molly back into London. As soon as their vehicle was out of sight, Lestrade turned back to John.

“Vampire politics,” John said, one hand covering his eyes. “I think I’ve just managed to undo a few decades of treaties in under a minute.”

“You’re in charge, though?” Lestrade asked, trying to reassure himself that he did not need to panic completely quite yet.

“Technically, I always have been,” John said, lowering his hand and sitting forward to stare at the map again. Charles was correct when he said that John was betting an awful lot of lives on a gut instinct.

“And you haven’t thought to, I don’t know, mention it?” Lestrade asked, exasperated.

“It’s a technicality based on an old pact. The Queen’s a great figurehead, but god help her if she exercises any actual power, y’know?”

Lestrade tilted his head as he considered this, and Sherlock finally spoke, a wry smile on his lips. “In this comparison, you’re the Queen?”

“Yes," John said. He managed to remain straight-faced until he looked at Sherlock, which brought on a few involuntary chuckles. He was able to look cheerful for a moment, but his face reverted back to unease as the reality of the situation set in.

“Oh, God. I’ve just called back an entire army and I don’t have a plan yet,” John said, watching Sherlock as he slipped past. Sherlock headed towards the kitchen table, letting go of his load of cameras and opening up his computer.

“Everyone is over there,” John murmured from his armchair. “Hundreds of the world’s best vampire hunters and we have access to none of them. As far as I know, they’re about to fall into a trap.” John stood and began to walk towards the kitchen, unable to stay seated for long.

“I’m sure everyone in Romania will be fine. They do this for a living, after all,” Sherlock said, sighing. He plugged one of the cameras in to his laptop and focused on the screen, transferring the videos that had been taken over the last several days. He was attempting not to be flippant, but didn’t know how else to comfort the doctor.

“My mother’s there, Sherlock,” John said abruptly, stopping as he looked down at Sherlock. He was angry with no one in particular, but prickly nonetheless. “When George said everyone was in Romania, he meant _everyone_.”

Sherlock glanced up from the screen, and pursed his lips. John’s face fell, the anger giving way to worry.

 “Sorry,” both men said quietly, and at the same time. After some time, and a fresh pot of tea later, Sherlock finally looked up.

 “Geoff,” Sherlock said, glancing at Lestrade before resuming his examination of the laptop, waving distractedly at the living room.

 Lestrade looked at Sherlock, then John, then pointed at himself as his brow furrowed. John rolled his eyes and nodded.

 Greg sighed, but came over to the kitchen table and looked over Sherlock’s shoulder at the computer.

“Watch,” Sherlock said, then pressed play. John walked around to Sherlock’s other side, and from there the group watched the video reveal Sally Donovan creeping in through John’s bedroom window. She was still human (John could see that much from her subtle but regular breathing), but with a glazed-over sort of look in her eyes.

“Shit,” Lestrade said quietly, before stepping away from the computer and yelling the same word more forcefully. He came back to the laptop and watched as a bright flash – Sherlock’s explosive – appeared on the screen and blew the police sergeant several meters back. Her head made contact with one of John’s bookshelves, and for a few minutes the three men watched as Sherlock fast-forwarded through the recording. Eventually, Sally stood, seeming both dazed but more conscious than she had appeared initially. As though taken over by an external force, the blank look reappeared on her face, and she could be seen answering a call, lifting her phone robotically to her ear. Then, just as soon as she had arrived, she left again through the window. 

“Detective Inspector,” Sherlock said, “Where’s Sally now?”

Lestrade thought about this, and then pulled out his phone again. “I have tracking enabled on her work mobile,” he said. He pressed a few buttons on his own phone, adding, “God knows if it’ll work now, though.” He put the phone to his ear as it began to ring, walking away from John and Sherlock as he started speaking to one of his officers at Scotland Yard.

“Not a vampire,” Sherlock noted quietly, looking over his other shoulder at John.

“No,” John confirmed. “Garden variety mind control.”

The pair could overhear Lestrade speaking to one of his colleagues, presumably a superior, to whom he was attempting to explain his extended absence from the office at the height of a serial murder crisis. Eventually, however, he returned to the kitchen and put the phone in his shirt pocket. “No one’s seen her at work today. Apparently she’s taken a couple of days off to go to a funeral in Edinburgh.”

“That sounds about right,” John said, feeling slightly more optimistic. “I guess we’re going to Scotland.”

“How are we getting there?” Lestrade asked, slightly more concerned with the legal side of their activities.

John’s brief moment of hope ended, and he considered this.

“Well, we can’t fly – not with all the guns I’ve got to take, even if I could have one of my contacts forge the customs documents in time. Can’t call Mycroft, he’s out of network. One of the Elders has a plane, but he’s with the rest of them in Romania.” John leaned back in his chair. “This has been planned too perfectly. It doesn’t matter what happens, we always seem to be a step behind.”

Sherlock plucked John’s phone out of his pocket and smiled, pleased to be able to offer John something that no one else could. “We may not have Mycroft, but I’ve memorized every contact in his phone. We will be fine.”  

* * *

 

 For all the skill Mycroft had at making travel arrangements and faking the information necessary to get him where he needed to go, he had nothing on Sherlock’s ability to act quickly to resolve time-sensitive problems. In the present situation, Sherlock had managed to call in a favour from a school companion of Mycroft’s who worked for the transportation minister. However reluctant the friend may have been to get involved in what Sherlock was planning, he was more than willing to provide him with an empty train compartment so long as no questions were asked. 

Before Greg knew what was happening, he was shuffled unceremoniously into the bathroom to have a quick shower, while John gathered up every weapon in his room that had not been damaged in the earlier blast. Sherlock collected all of the case notes he presumed he would need, and within an hour the group was on the way to the train station. Fifteen minutes after arriving, the train was in motion, and their private, locked carriage was stacked with as many guns, stakes, and crossbows as John was able to carry out of the flat.

Sherlock, John, and Lestrade had managed to get into the train with minimal interaction with the other passengers. However, it made for a quiet voyage, and though the three sat close to one another, they spoke only briefly when something came to mind. As though on cue, after yet another five minutes of silence, John spoke to Sherlock. “Text Molly, remind her to look up moon phases. Maybe it’ll pull something worthwhile.” John took a sip of coffee as he wrote down notes on a pad of paper. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at being made a secretary, but proceeded to send the text as directed.

The silence, for Sherlock anyways, felt stifling. He was far too used to being instantly gratified by information, able to deduce the things he wasn’t told directly. However, in this case, he did not have enough raw data to make sense of everything that was happening, genius-level analytical abilities notwithstanding.

“So,” Sherlock said, breaking the silence. “You have effectively managed to explain very little about what we’re doing, yet managed to get us both on a train to possible death. Obviously I can speak for both Lestrade and myself when I say we don’t particularly mind that, but I think we would both appreciate some answers.”

John glanced up and put his pen down, surprised that Sherlock was willing to delve into the topic in the enclosed space of the train carriage – an aggressive tactic even for the consulting detective.

“You did promise to discuss this,” Sherlock said, uncharacteristically pushy. “Remember?”

John ran a hand down his face as he looked out the window, his body present but his mind far away. “I always remember,” he murmured.

Sherlock glanced at Lestrade, who was politely fiddling with his jacket and trying not to glance at John directly.

“I’m not quite sure where to start,” John said, still caught of guard. He waited a moment, eyes lingering on his notepad, before starting to speak.

“Sherlock, you’ve been wondering about the war. Sebastian,” he added, glancing up at Sherlock briefly. Sherlock nodded, and John slowly tried to put his thoughts in order.

“I was married,” John said in the silence. Regardless of how hard he had tried to forget, he remembered. “That’s where I should start.”

John leaned back in his seat and began to fiddle with the paper sleeve of his coffee cup. Sherlock was already surprised, and beginning to question whether he was prepared for the answers he would receive.

* * *

  John recalled every moment of the day he left the army very clearly, and explained so to Sherlock and Greg. He remembered going directly overseas after his schooling, so young and ready to prove himself. The regiment he had joined was one dedicated to fighting vampires, a joint effort between several European and North American militaries. Although it was a quiet program, and did not exist in any official paperwork, it was where a number of armies’ best and brightest were sent. 

John had arrived in Egypt for extended training with little other than his mother and father’s stories about the wars they had fought in. He had traveled with his parents and killed a good number of vampires before he had even learned how to drive (it was an obligatory element of being a Van Helsing, after all), but the training he learned in Egypt was different. His medical education was accelerated, and his skills developed rapidly as he found himself constantly healing his fellow soldiers.

By the time he was made a captain, he was already the unofficial leader of his unit, respected by his peers as well as the friendlier vampires he came into contact with. Though his team was officially based out of Romania, they travelled throughout Europe and the Middle East aiding vampire-human relationships and, when necessary, going to war with and destroying vampire covens. His reputation grew, and over time the attacks launched at the regiment began to target the doctor specifically.

“When I was thirty-four, I met Mary. Christ, I thought I was so lucky,” John said, laughing disbelievingly and looking up at the ceiling of the train compartment, doing his best not to break down. Sherlock, likewise, appeared grim for the sake of not letting his emotions get the best of him. He had expected, perhaps naively, that John’s past was more straightforward.

“Mary, she was on holiday while I was working in Hungary. She was supposed to go back home, but she just… stayed. With me. The first time she met me, I was covered in vampire blood, and she was totally unphased. Insisted that I tell her everything, actually. She thought that all the danger was interesting.”

“Sounds like your type,” Lestrade said drily, taking an edge of the tense mood in the car.

John snorted, his face briefly breaking into a smile. “Yeah, she was that. You two would have loved her. She was all danger, and joy, and everything that I thought I could never have in my life.” John’s smile softened as he reminisced, then he pressed on.

“We got married in Romania, right outside Cluj-Napoca. After that, we moved to the base in Afghanistan. We had one perfect year,” John murmured, clearing his throat.

“The base was always a target, we had issues for years, the occasional break-ins by angry vampires, sometimes full-on onslaughts by ancient vampire groups who didn’t like our presence. Most of them figured that since they were immortal, they didn’t need to be governed by anyone. Usually these kinds of insurrections were put down fairly quickly. On June the seventh at two forty-five in the morning, all hell broke loose.”


	17. Chapter 17

_“Do you know what the place is? Have you seen that awful den of hellish infamy, with the very moonlight alive with grisly shapes, and every speck of dust that whirls in the wind a devouring monster in embryo?”_

 

John was woken by the gentle shaking of the building, and the sounds of screams from outside. He glanced at his window: it was well before dawn, so the screaming could possibly be due to vampire nonsense. That, however, seemed unlikely, given that some of John’s most reliable (if perhaps a little temperamental) recruits were vampires. On the other hand, after years in the army, very little surprised him anymore.

Rubbing his eyes, John leaned over to Mary’s side of the bed. She had been gone for two weeks on a mission on his behalf, but that hadn’t stopped John from pretending she was still home, and continuing to keep his keys and alarm clock on her side of the bed. Greeted by darkness, he gradually noticed that the blue light from the alarm clock was gone - dead, it looked like. His phone charger had stopped working sometime in the middle of the night as well. Grabbing his ID tag, he pulled on a fresh pair of jeans, slipped into some casual shoes, and headed out into the halls. Above, the emergency lights were dark. John frowned; even the backup generator had a backup generator, and he was meticulous in testing their emergency systems.

As John walked quickly down the hall, his mind touched on more sinister possibilities - after all, it was only six months ago that an attack on the base had taken place. That was virtually unheard of, especially in the middle of Afghanistan. It wasn’t just that there were there so few vampires in the middle of the desert, being such a terrible place to hide out during the daytime. More so, it was that John's unit - while ostensibly an army branch - was more focused on peacekeeping. Ironic, certainly, given John's ancestry; nothing brought to mind "vampire hunting" quite so well as his surname. He had spent so many nights considering the attack that had taken place. Even as Sebastian had stitched him up, John knew something was wrong. It was out of character for any vampire group to arrange themselves so thoroughly without a plan. They had to have been looking for something in particular.

John had always been pleased to work on such a well-equipped, well-protected base. He felt a sense of pride that he was not only trusted enough to take care of it, but to take charge as well. His regiment was not especially well-publicized; certainly, the fact that vampires existed was all but forbidden to speak of outside of the highest echelons of the army. Nevertheless, John and his recruits knew that they were part of something important. Possibly part of one of the most important regiments on earth.  
Always, John's focus was on what was being protected at the base: namely, vampire artifacts and ancient lore. Works that were thousands of years old, written by hands both vampire and human, that detailed the more intimate truths of their kind. John himself hadn't read most of the books that were stored on the base, but he knew enough to be aware that he had to protect what was behind the silver bars of the compound.

As he padded through the hall, still not entirely in the realm of the waking, he heard another scream outside. That one, without a doubt, was a scream of pain. He paused, and as he took in a breath he felt the rapidly beating hearts around him. Panicked breaths, quick footfalls, and more bodies outside than should ever even be on the base. Something was definitely wrong. As John ran down the hall and jumped down half a flight of stairs to the next landing, questions flooded his mind. Someone should have woken him, and the exterior alarms should have gone off. He half-imagined he was in a particularly vivid nightmare, until his progress across the foyer of the officers’ barracks was swiftly halted. Crashing hard, John landed on his elbows and narrowly avoided biting his tongue as his teeth snapped close. 

“Jesus fucking-” he began, turning onto his side to see what tripped him. Blood, spread across the floor, led from the gaping wounds in the necks and arms of two of that night’s guards, barely visible in the moonlight coming through the windows. John picked himself up quickly, and slid towards one of the men. Medical help wouldn’t save them, but their guns may do a service, John thought as he grabbed a pistol from one of them. He felt foolish for forgetting his own weapons, but the vast majority of of battles he had fought in his lifetime were hand-to-hand anyways, and on that front he felt prepared.

Carefully, he walked down one of the hallways leading out to a side door, and slipped through. Almost immediately, the blast of an explosive threw him back against the door. This time, he wasn’t lucky enough to avoid striking his head, and saw a haze of stars in front of his vision before he could see the scene before him with any clarity. Once he did, he was struck by a sense of horror: ahead of him, one of the heavily fortified gates hung open. Chaos in the central yard of the base reigned, and bodies - both military and otherwise - lay across the ground. Some groups appeared to be fighting with one another, while across the road from him, bleary-eyed soldiers who were just as confused as John were exiting their own barracks. 

Another explosion sounded in the distance, and as John turned he watched as the uppermost part of the bell tower blew apart. This in itself would have worried John, but the fact that it was quite obviously a planned demolition using military-grade materials was what struck him first. Were they being attacked from within? The bell tower seemed an odd target, until he remembered that was where the base’s collection of silver- and wood-tipped bullets had been relocated following the last attack. Moved, he recalled, at Sebastian’s suggestion. John got moving. 

Across the road, John saw one of his higher ranking officers, Gabriel, moving quickly against two vampires to try and subdue them. John, coming around from behind, pulled one of the other man’s stakes from his belt and lunged at the stronger of the two vampires. Now evenly matched, the vampires struggled to fight against John and his colleague. As they backed the pair towards a fenced-in outbuilding, John glanced quickly at Gabriel.

“What the hell happened here?” He asked, training his weapon on the vampire in front of him as he took calm, measured steps forward. The vampires bared their fangs as they looked for an escape from the path they were being led on.

Gabriel shook his head. “You’ve got me,” he said. “I was in the map room with Andrews running a simulation for that raid we’re doing in Balagha. Suddenly it sounds like the gate is being ripped off its hinges, and six dozen vamps start raving in.” 

John began walking towards his right to make sure that he closed off all possible exits for the two vampires in front of them. “No one woke me,” John said, flipping his stake from side to side. 

“Sebastian said he was going to get you,” Gabriel said, taking his own chance to glance at John. “He was in the courtyard when they came barreling through.”

John nodded, and the sinking feeling in his gut grew deeper. “That sounds about right.”

Taking their final chance to get away, the vampires rushed forward. Unphased, John and Gabriel took them on in their own ways, but with the same result; in fewer than ten seconds, the vampires were staked. 

“Boy howdy,” Gabriel said, pulling his stake hand out of a pile of dark burgundy blood and sinew. 

John raised an eyebrow at his subordinate’s choice of words, and smiled tightly. “Can’t take the boy out of Texas?” He offered. 

Gabriel wiped the stake on his fatigues. “Damn right. What’s next, Captain?” 

John surveyed the rest of the fighting that covered the courtyard. Tempting though it was, he couldn’t fight hand in hand with his men as he usually would. He had to get back into command mode. 

“Find Jane,” he directed. John turned and stepped nimbly away from a fighting pair. A cadet, fighting for the first time in the field, was currently engaged with a vampire twice his size, and was close to pinning it down with a silver-lined glove. John nodded curtly at the young man, and kept walking. Things were almost too easy, tonight, it almost felt like he was being teased - built up with small victories, but nothing impressive; John felt as though something was about to go terribly wrong.

Slipping through the door to the central command building, John started running. He had been reticent to do so outside, for fear of attracting attention to himself, but here all bets were off. “Sebastian!” he yelled, rounding the corner towards the stairwell. At the top, he glanced out the window, and got a better handle on what was happening below. By now, most of his soldiers were on the ground and fighting, but with a flash of unease John noted that the munitions building was surrounded heavily by enemy vampires. John was well aware that the building was not marked, nor was it named on maps - someone on the base would have had to point out where it was. 

The intruders to the base seemed to be exclusively vampire. That was strange enough - most vampires were, to a fault, antisocial. They didn’t - wouldn’t - organize themselves into large groups for anything, much less battle. Not since Dracula held sway over the Carpathians, anyways. More worrying still, they seemed trained, and foreign; these were not just local vampires causing havoc. John wouldn’t have been surprised to learn he knew some of the attackers by name. 

These groups seemed to be moving towards the center of the base in a circle, some dropping what looked like inert explosives behind themselves. John would have to take care of that when he exited. They appeared to be methodical, almost matching, but not quite meeting, the tactical skill of John’s own soldiers. He felt a surge of pride, which was rapidly replaced by a worrying observation that a large number of soldiers were not out in the field yet. 

John turned from the window and darted towards the central control room. With the lights out, he almost didn’t notice that the handle of the door had been nearly melted off. At first, John presumed this was so someone could access the office, but on further inspection he realized it was so he couldn’t get in. The rage that had been gently bubbling under the surface finally reached its peak, and as his fangs came out, John slammed himself into the door with strength only a man with vampire blood could achieve. Someone knew he was coming, and John was beginning to think he knew who that someone was.

With a sharp snap, the door flew open and John walked towards the main control panel overlooking the courtyard. It had been a longshot, but John was pleased to see that the control panel was still functional - it seemed, for this section of the emergency systems, some part of the generator was still working. Acting quickly, John pressed an inconspicuous red button near the far right side of the board and distantly, he could hear sirens across the base sounding. If anyone was missing the fun, as he had been, they were awake now. 

John recalled the first and only other time that he had pressed that button. He was still young, new to the base that had just been established. Every rogue vampire created during the war that the humans were waging had come running, and John was more than willing to set his corner of the world in order. He had set off the sirens, announced to the base that “ladies and gentlemen, we are at war,” then proceeded to win the briefest, bloodiest, and most orderly battle in recent memory. 

With the sirens, John knew an alert had also been sent to the Council. Somewhere, he imagined, his father was preparing to mobilize the next closest army base to serve as backup. John walked towards the large windows that lined two full walls of the room, and tried to put his plans in order. He would have to pull some weapons for himself out of the gun safe in the room across the hall - that was easy. Next, he would have to triage the battle outside. At present, freeing up the main armory building was his top concern, but if the tide turned he would take over general battle governance. Unless, of course, he could locate Sebastian, who as his second-in-command would shoulder some of his work. Watching as groups moved into position, as trained, John finalized his battle plans.

Amidst the chaos, John paused to look up from the action on the ground. On the roof of the medical building opposite him, a few floors up, he saw a figure standing on the edge, gently swaying against the breeze. A blonde woman, dressed in blue, John was struck by how similar she seemed to Mary. Similar, but still too much of an off-kilter facsimile - until she looked at him, and John felt a dagger of anxiety pierce through his heart. It was Mary. He put a hand up, but she appeared to stare straight through him, as though he wasn’t there. John pulled his phone out of his back pocket as he got closer to the window, and dialled her number. She didn’t react, and the call went to voicemail. 

John raced out of the room, just barely remembering to pull out some stakes, a bulletproof vest to hold them, and another gun and holster from the storeroom. As he barreled out onto the stairwell, he reconsidered his options, and went back into the weapons cupboard. This time, he tried to think things through thoroughly and chose his weapons a bit more logically. He changed out his second handgun for a sniper rifle, then slipped a pair of silver-lined gloves into his back pocket. This time, when he took off running for the stairwell, he felt like he was a bit more in control. Turning in the opposite direction he came, he headed upstairs, loading the gun as he went. At least on the rooftop he could make the most of his rifle.

Some part of him knew that he was supposed to lead his team in protecting the base, rather than meet with his wife, but a feeling of unease continued to gnaw at him. Protecting the base and seeing why Mary had returned now, in the middle of a war, seemed to be two sides of the same coin. Running up the stairs towards the rooftop passed in a blur, and very shortly he was heaving himself through the heavy door to the outdoors. From above the crowds below, the night almost seemed pleasant. The skies in the desert were spectacular even on an ordinary night, but it was especially breathtaking without the light pollution that usually emanated from the camp. Mary’s pale body seemed to glow with starlight. 

“Sweetheart?” John called in the direction of the opposite building’s roof, walking towards the edge of his own. She put up a hand to stop him.

“Don’t come any closer, John.”

He stopped as though restrained by an invisible force. 

“Mary?” He asked, growing more concerned by the moment.

She didn’t shake, though the night was chilly and she wasn’t wearing more than a thin cotton dress and pair of trainers. Almost by instinct, he tried to sense her heartbeat - couldn’t. In that moment, John was unsure if he would even be able to locate his own - it was as though the earth stopped spinning, and for a moment, all that existed beyond the rooftop seemed to disappear. 

“He’s given me his blood, John,” Mary murmured, reading his expression. Her hands shook as she touched her neck gingerly. Raw holes, recently cut into her skin, hadn’t healed yet, John noted with horror. She was still too new a vampire.

“He means to have me kill you, or if failing to do so, kill myself,” her voice wavered. “I can’t say no.”

“Who? Honey, who?” 

“Tom,” she replied quietly, red-rimmed eyes widening as she spoke her maker’s name.

John felt as though the air in the room left him. His mind raced through possibilities, all the ways out of the situation. “I could kill him.” He tried to swallow and was met with the prickling sensation of tears in his eyes.

Mary shook her head. “He’s gone. Far away, already. You would never catch up.”

John’s left hand began to shake. He had run into Tom plenty of times before in Romania, Moldova, Spain - wherever a vampire of some significance was recruiting followers, Tom seemed to turn up. He was an enemy, to be sure, but very low-level. Until the moment Mary spoke his name, harmless. 

“No,” John said, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. “That’s not possible, I would know. I wouldn’t have let it – this can’t –“

John’s face crumpled. He felt as though a vice had closed on his throat. Accepting Mary having become a vampire, that would have been fine, more or less – at the very least, she would have something new in common with her in-laws, and John would be happy to provide her with blood. That was a reality he had pondered, considered it a plausible option for extending their time together. Accepting this reality was not possible. He had seen her only a few weeks prior, happy and alive. Prepared to take on a solo mission. How could he have sent her to death without seeing the dangers beforehand? John attempted to recover his emotion and squared his shoulders.

“We can deal with this, I can keep you somewhere safe,” John began. 

Mary smiled, able to conceal her fear for the most part. “Darling, I can barely hold back now. Every muscle, every impulse in my brain, is telling me to obey my maker and destroy one of us. Please, John.” 

At the sound of his name, John flinched as though struck.

“Please kill me.”

John knew he could fight her, attempt to secure her in the midst of the chaos that reigned on the ground below, but he had done this too long. He knew the power a maker had over his progeny and he knew she had reached the only valid conclusion for this problem. This part of John’s memory, the bargaining, the pleading, and the constant refrain of “no, god no,” was scattered and filled with blank gaps; however, the end of it was blindingly clear, permanently carved into his mind. This part of his life, the part of his life where he felt content in his marriage and career, ended with a gun pointed at Mary, her body falling from the edge of the building and landing, unnoticed, in the fray below. Fangs bared, John stood. He was certain, more than anything else at that moment, that when he grieved, it would last years and be truly terrible to behold. He felt certain that the man who walked onto that rooftop, and the man who would leave, were now irreconcilably different people. For the time being, however, he had business to take care of, and he wouldn’t cease until his hands were drenched in blood.

John recognized only moments of consciousness among the blackness that otherwise overwhelmed him. He felt himself walking towards the edge of the roof, then, seemingly instantly, he felt himself putting a vampire in the sights of his rifle. After the first shot hit its target, John heard distant cheers from his men. After the fifth, John didn’t hear or feel anything beyond the sound of himself shifting position on the roof, taking aim at one of the invaders on the ground, and firing. When he ran out of rounds, John dropped the rifle absently and walked back down the stairs. 

John felt propelled more by instinct than anything else, aware that he had a job to do but still mentally far away. He found as he walked across the courtyard to the armory that he was not attracting a great deal of attention, in spite of the fact that he was fairly recognizable, and any vampire going through the effort of attacking his military installation would know who he was. Nevertheless, only a few of the younger, wilder enemy vampires made any attempt to attack him, and even then they were quickly intercepted by one of John’s soldiers. The battle was truly in full-swing, with the soldiers - now all present and accounted for - spread out in a semi-circle, shooters taking a step forward after every round they shot. Others, armed with stakes, paced between the sharpshooters and waited for a rogue vampire to branch out and try a solo attack. 

Absently, John wondered why more vampires wouldn’t use guns. Sure, there was an element of pride - Earth’s most dangerous predator shouldn’t need a human weapon, and whatnot - but it still seemed like a silly cultural standard. Then again, since being made vampire, even John’s mother was reluctant to use technology of any kind to fight her battles. John’s zombie-like progression through the crowd was halted by a hand on his shoulder. He turned, gun drawn immediately, before realizing it was Jane who had grabbed him.

“You all right?” Jane asked, putting her own gun hand down. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Fine, fine,” John answered, particularly not-fine at that very moment. “Who’s leading the battle?” 

Jane’s posture immediately changed as she transitioned into soldier-mode. “Myself and Balcombe have drawn most of the vampires to the courtyard. I’ve sent out a group of soldiers under Westenra to secure the perimeter. Would you like to make any changes?”

John shook his head. “Are the fallout shelters prepared? I don’t expect this to last much longer, but I want you to direct everyone underground if things go sideways.”

“Done and done,” Jane replied. 

“Any chance you’ve looked at the gate? How did they get through?” John asked.

At this, Jane seemed uncomfortable. 

“Lieutenant?” John insisted, firmer this time.

“It was unlocked,” she answered, clearly aware of the implications. 

John did not imagine, for even a moment, that this was an accident. Not only was locking the gate a five-step procedure, in the event of a blackout the gate would become impossible to open. For the gate to be open, now, meant that a human with the correct rank would have had to unlock the gate in anticipation of the power outage. John gazed at the gate, and as the most obvious conclusion reached him, he felt as though the ground was rapidly disappearing from beneath his feet. 

For the first time that night, John saw a familiar tall blond head across the crowd. Stalking across the yard single-mindedly, Sebastian had a rifle of his own slung across his back and appeared to be heading in the general direction of the treasury.

“Sebastian!” He yelled, walking away from Jane, rage evident in his eyes. The other man continued walking away from him, ignoring his cries. Confused and hurt, John looked away from his friend and immediately spotted a more interesting target. Alone amongst the fighting groups, a red-headed young woman waved coyly at him. She was neither a woman or young, John knew - Sylvia had been Tom’s mate since the mid-forties. It was immediately clear that this was Tom’s final jab, leaving John such temptation. She was not, after all, attacking anyone on the base - simply observing. However, Tom had quite seriously overestimated John’s willingness to adhere to his own moral code. Though he was typically compassionate, today was an exception. Instead, his first thought was simply that Tom had been unwise to leave his mate unattended. He took off running after her, and gleefully she led him across the complex. Jane, watching him run, was baffled.

Passing one of the outbuildings on the far reaches of the base, John found himself nearly catching up to her several times, in spite of her advantage as a full vampire. Having recently had blood, however, John was able to catch up, and felt a primal exhilaration deep within himself as he caught up to her and her laughter faded. Feeling more strength run through him than he was even aware he had, John grabbed at her hair and threw her down. Within moments, he was on top of her, and his hands began systematically breaking every bone he could reach. Eventually, his hands wrapped around her throat, pushing up until he heard the tearing sound of brittle skin separating. As she looked at him with panic, John realized that Tom must have sincerely believed he would have let her live, and told her as much. Moments after the head of the vampire separated from her body, her remains rapidly began to decay. John felt both deeply satisfied, and deeply ashamed. 

John began the trek back to the center of the base, and was just rounding the corner when an explosion behind him brought him to his hands and knees. Baffled, he turned to see the mess hall engulfed in flames. Before he quite took in the sight before him, another explosion followed, this time taking down a storage warehouse. John watched with horror as the building, collapsing sideways, began to veer into the base hospital beside it. Like the bell tower, the demolition was controlled - someone had planted the explosives. As though on cue, John heard every building near him thunder with the sound of breaking glass. Before he could think of running, he was pelted with shards, and a final explosive blast pushed him onto his back. John felt himself lose consciousness, seemingly momentarily, but when he sat up he saw that the base had been leveled; ashes thick like fog spiraled across the scorched earth in front of him. 

While enemy fighters were racing out of the compound, ignoring John in their midst, John couldn’t see the shape of any of his own men. Hoping against hope, he assumed that they had retreated to one of the underground shelters in the central courtyard. That was his instruction, always - structures can be rebuilt, objects can be repurchased, but your lives - undead or otherwise - are paramount. Still, though, John saw bodies lying in the dirt; bodies he recognized as friends. Far too many to turn, if he were even capable of such a thing; he had never tried. Assuming everyone went to ground, as directed, he would have no help from any of the vampires under his command in that regard.

Coming to terms with the scene before him, John tried to get his bearings. Through the haze of smoke and flames, John clearly saw the tall figure of Sebastian directing vampires across the base. John pulled himself up using the flagpole beside him, and lumbered in his second-in-command’s direction. 

“Sebastian!” He screamed, voice hoarse from the smoke he had inhaled. Finally, the man acknowledged him, and waved away the last of his vampires. In one hand, he held a book. 

“Why? Why?” John asked, stalking forward, more insistent on receiving answers than racing back to start putting out the flames of the burning compound. “Jesus, Sebastian, you were my brother. Why would you do this?”

“I’m under new management,” Sebastian called from afar, with more than a hint of sarcasm in his voice. He turned from John and began walking out of the central gates of the base towards a waiting vehicle. He likely would have continued walking, leaving John to the nightmare behind him, until a shot rang out over the sound of crackling flames. Sebastian didn’t notice he had been hit until he felt warm blood trickling down his cheek from a graze above his temple. The kind of injury only a master marksman could inflict.

Both angry and surprised, he turned to face John. His Captain, still on his feet, was pointing a gun directly at him. 

“Answer me, damn you, or I’ll aim a bit more to the left.”

Exhilaration won out over the rest of his competing emotions, and Sebastian laughed. “Impressive, for a man who can barely stand.” 

John braced himself further, but knew he was right - he had very little power left to fight Sebastian, much less stay conscious. 

“Why?” He whispered once more. 

“Why?” Sebastian repeated, coming closer. For the first time, John could see a hint of insanity in his old friend. It was well-hidden, to be sure, but in this moment the mask fell entirely. John had always caught glimpses of it, but wrote it off; smiles that fell too quickly, battle plans that were always a hint too sadistic. Now, he realized what a mistake he had made. 

“You were my second,” John murmured. “I trusted you.”

“And I was second,” Sebastian repeated. “Not all vampires care to follow the Van Helsings, John. Neither do all humans, for that matter.” At this, Sebastian readied his fist and launched it directly at John, landing on his cheek and immediately breaking his orbital bone. The next few hits landed just as efficiently, bringing John to his knees. His gun fell, forgotten, into the sand beside him. Sebastian returned to loading up his Panther with the help of several vampires who seemed willing to obey him. 

In a final act of self preservation, John, limping, managed to stand and turn back to face the entrance to the camp. He remembered how excited he was to arrive the first time, to be driven through the gates with the knowledge that it would be his to protect and govern. Now, watching it burn through a wall of heat and flame, he felt that dream turn to ash. Shrapnel, propelled by intermittent explosions, continued to whip across the air, and though John knew it would be wise to back away, he walked forward. When the first warped projectile struck his leg, he hardly noticed. It was only when a piece of thick glass struck his abdomen that he finally fell to his knees. 

Part of his mind wanted to back away, while another wanted to crawl forward to see if he could find shelter behind the toppled watchtower. An explosion above showered him in hot pieces of metal, and John flattened down and covered his head with his hands. All he understood in his disoriented state was agony, and when pain centered on his shoulder began to radiate out into the rest of his body, he barely recognized the new sensation. Exhausted, he finally gave in to the emotional and physical beating he had taken that day and blissfully fell into unconsciousness. The last image his mind registered was boots, across from his face, then cold blue eyes staring back into his own.


	18. Chapter 18

_“There will be pain for us all, but it will not be all pain, nor will this pain be the last.”_

 

“He left me for dead,” John said, finally looking up at Sherlock. “Couldn’t have been bothered to put a bullet in me properly, that’s how hopeless I looked. For all his hatred, I think what he disliked most was being under orders to kill me. He’d be happy to do it, but only if he were doing it of his own volition.”

Sherlock, quiet up until that point, put down the train ticket he had been fiddling with. “How did you survive?”

“Power of spite?” John said, chuckling dryly. “I’m kind of hard to kill, generally speaking. A completely human soldier could have lived through worse.”

“You were bleeding out in the sand,” Sherlock said, never one to accept modesty even in the least emotionally charged of situations.

John shrugged. “Someone found me, eventually. There were stragglers who managed to avoid the worst of the slaughter but didn’t go to ground. I had them hide me in one of the medical storerooms that hadn’t been destroyed, so I could patch myself up and do an inventory of the base. Sent them off to put out the last of the fires.”

“Then?” Sherlock prodded, and John shrugged.

“I left,” he said. “Let the Council know where they could find their assets, and had them fly me out. I saw my opportunity to let that version of myself die, and took it.” After a time, he add, “I couldn’t.” He breathed out heavily, and glanced at his hands in his lap before continuing. “I couldn’t look my remaining men in the eye and still feel I was capable of leading them.”

Lestrade, who had left John and Sherlock more or less to themselves on the journey, spoke up. “When you’re a leader, you have to have implicit trust in your team,” he said, spreading his hands in the universal gesture of ‘it is what it is.’ “It has its risks, but it’s the only way to get through each day. I did the same. Do you blame me?”

John looked up at him, confused. “Why would I blame you? For Sally?”

Lestrade nodded. “I should have noticed, right? I mean, I spotted a certain glazed-over look now and again, but that’s normal on a string of cases like the murders. Late nights, stress, gore - it takes a certain emotional fortitude to get you through the day, and once it’s gone, so are you.”

“Of course I don’t blame you,” John said. “You had enough on your plate.”

“And so did you,” Lestrade said, softly but firmly.

There was silence in the train car. Small towns and rolling hills whipped past the window, everything cold and peaceful under the streetlights.

“Did they destroy everything?” Sherlock asked. 

John grinned, for the first time in the long trip. “Not even close.” He recalled that being the very first question he asked after he was found, following the massacre. Even then, he had known the answer before he had been told. “All that trouble, and not one person got to the lowest level of the vaults.” 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. 

“I was the head of an extensive military installation, I wasn’t a total moron. I didn’t share every piece of information that my security clearance gave me, though I did tell Sebastian a damn sight more than I should have.” John glanced at Sherlock. “I was the only one who knew the way down to where we kept the oldest texts, artifacts and whatnot. I was also the only one with the door code. So, when the goddamn band of reprobates trashed the majority of our weapons and the still-important, less-integral information stored aboveground and in the first two basements, they figured they’d gotten it all.”

John shifted in his seat and flicked through some of the papers laid out before him. He pulled out a piece of paper and slid it towards Sherlock. 

“This is the last catalogue I wrote up for that level of the vaults.”

As he read through the list, Sherlock had done some quick mental math. “How are you only a captain? Years of service, number of soldiers in your command. It doesn’t add up.”

John shrugged. “Undead Corps has a different structure. Converting to regular army rankings would shift me up a bit.”

“Undead… All right. Between this and ‘band of reprobates’ you have to have roped me into the world’s worst practical joke.”

John looked at him and started laughing. Lestrade - as usual, amused at the pair, but still out of the loop - smiled. 

Sherlock smirked as continued his slow read down the page. “Quite enjoying some of these labels. Necronomicon - Lovecraft, and Necronomicon - real, functional. Gold ring of Vlad the Impaler. Death shroud of Barnabas the Great and Fearsome - stained.”

“Relics,” John noted. “Important to vampire history the same way relics of saints, or pieces of the cross are to Christians. The difference of course being that ours are legitimate.” 

Sherlock’s finger ran down to the last set of items on the list. “These ones are all in code?” 

John nodded. “Not all information is safe to write down.”

“What’s A01X?” Sherlock asked, never one to abide by high security protocols.

“Book of the Undead,” John said, equally indifferent. “Virtually no one has seen it, much less tried to read it. Most vampires sincerely believe it was written in the hand of Dracula.”

“You’re kidding,” Lestrade said, and John shrugged.

“I think so too.” 

Both other men stared at him with varying degrees of disbelief.

“I’ve read a lot of more-extensive, less-believable theories. It seems to fit,” John said, unconcerned. “It’s meant to be a how-to guide for all sorts of things: immortality, shapeshifting, raising graveyards of the recently dead. That general idea.”

“Well,” Sherlock said, considering. “Can it?”

John paused, and chose his next words delicately. “Some things are best left unknown. When Mary died…” His voice trailed off momentarily, and he coughed. “If I had sincerely believed that what was in that book would work, and that it would be a good thing, I would have let the base burn just to decipher that book and bring her back.”

He let his words sink in.

“So, what I think I’m trying to get at, is yes - I do genuinely believe that every legend about that book is true. I believe Dracula wrote it so that one day he could be brought back. I also believe, more than anything else, that cracking it open and trying to use it to obtain power would bring a darkness into this world that could never be fully eradicated.” There was silence, and John attempted to bring the mood up a bit. “Anyways, I think that’s what Sebastian was looking for. It seemed to come up in conversation between us unusually frequently. He had a feeling it was being kept on the base, but was never able to find out where.”

“He never found it though, right?” Greg asked, pondering the amount of overtime he would have to put in to locate a missing book of the dead.

“No,” John said. “As I said, that level was safe. Everything was relocated following the attack. But,” John trailed off for a moment. He recalled his last image of Sebastian. “He might have thought he found it.”

Sherlock shifted forward and rested his elbows on the table in front of him. “Interesting.” 

“The last time I saw him,” John said, continuing, “He was carrying a book. A grimoire, about the same age as the Book. If you weren’t sure how the vaults were organized, and were using my godawful notes to find anything, it would be easy to mistake the two.”

A light dawned on Greg. “So if he thinks he has the right book…”

“We might have that on them,” Sherlock said, leaning back and steepling his fingers together. “Oh, well done, John.” Sherlock’s mind raced, as he began to put the puzzle pieces of the past few months together. 

John looked at him doubtfully. “I’m glad my complete inability to label anything correctly has come in handy. You know, we don’t know that Sebastian’s involved here at all.”

Greg made a quiet noise of disagreement. “I don’t mean to point out the obvious here - god knows I’m the most confused person in this train car - but, John, it seems pretty clear. Tom and Sebastian were clearly working together then, and Tom was involved in the murdes now. Seems pretty clear they’re linked.”

There was quiet, and John didn’t need to look at Sherlock to know the detective agreed. “You aren’t wrong. I don’t know why I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt.” 

“He was your friend,” Sherlock said, simply. “It’s hard to let go of that.”

The group’s thoughts were interrupted by a loud ringtone, and Greg nearly jumped as his coat pocket began to vibrate. 

“Hello?” He said, after glancing quickly at the caller ID and tapping the speakerphone icon. 

“Hi Greg, it’s Molly,” the voice on the other end of the line said. 

“Hi Molly, we’re all here,” he said, putting the phone down in the middle of the table. 

“Hi guys,” Molly said, her voice cutting out a bit as the train passed under a canopy of electrical wires. “How are things going?” 

“Oh, fine,” Greg said, reluctantly taking charge of the conversation while glancing at the other two men. “Just talking about murder. How are you?”

Molly made a noise that the group assumed was a laugh, then said, “Oh, fine. Researching, as directed.”

“Has anything turned up? With the moon phases, maybe?” John asked.

“No luck,” Molly answered. “Unless we’re searching for werewolves, which I’ve been readily assured do not exist. Or witches, apparently they’re big on moons, too. How are we feeling about witches, John? Do they exist?”

John shrugged. “Er, in a sense.” He didn’t expand. “Anything on that army group Jane mentioned?”

“No, John, sorry. Even with all the information I have access to here, it’s not enough. I do have some good news, though,” she said, brightening up. “I’ve booked a nice hotel for you three in walking distance to the train station. There’s a police station close by, Greg, if you want to check in there.”

Greg nodded. “Couldn’t hurt to keep London up to date, even if they’ll think this is a wild goose chase.”

Molly continued, “The gentleman Sherlock arranged the train through has also booked us a porter service in the train station. They can deliver everything there for you.”

“That’s terrific, Molly,” John said. “Thanks. How are things there?”

“Well,” Molly said, reflecting, “there’s a nice librarian who keeps bringing me tea and snacks, but won’t say anything. That’s a bit odd, but otherwise fine. There’s actually a bed down here, though if you could sort things out before I have to really settle in, I’d appreciate it.” 

John smiled, remembering his teen years - he’d spend weeks at a time in the vampire wing, studying, during summer break. “Do you see the big red leather-bound book? Far wall, right beside the door.” 

“Yes?” Molly confirmed. 

“There should still be a bottle of gin tucked in behind it. That should help things along.” 

John smiled and the group said their goodbyes, and in short order the train pulled into the station. As Molly promised, they were greeted by several grim-looking men who worked efficiently and quietly, and assured them that their luggage would beat them to the hotel. Lestrade took Molly’s suggestion and headed towards the nearest police station. He was sure they wouldn’t have the same resources as the Met - probably wouldn’t even understand what he was doing in town - but he wanted them to be aware that a potential murderer could be nearby all the same.

Supplies sorted out and en-route to the hotel, Sherlock and John exited the train station on to Princes Street and began walking east, taking a left onto Leith. After ten minutes of solo concentration, Sherlock finally spoke. 

“So, are your vampire senses tingling?” Sherlock asked John. 

John did a mock double-take. “Do you even know what that’s a reference from?” 

“No,” Sherlock replied, grinning.

“Ah,” John said, nodding. “As it so happens - yes.”

“And?”

“No idea,” John replied, shrugging. “The city’s alive, for one thing - vibrating with supernatural energy. I can’t place it, though.”

“I presume that means we’re on the right track, at the very least,” Sherlock said.

Sherlock glanced at the pub to his left. “Dinner?”

“God, yes,” John answered.

-

It was past midnight by the time John and Sherlock began their final walk back to the hotel. John felt a bit disappointed - the sense of disquiet he had gotten when they initially arrived in Edinburgh was replaced by more of a dull sensation that something was wrong, but without any particulars. Once they slipped into their hotel room and accounted for half of the luggage, John felt like he had enough of a handle of the situation to talk to Sherlock. 

“Are you feeling anything?” John asked. “Not the weird supernatural bullshit. Do you feel any deductions coming on?” 

Sherlock sat on the edge of one of the armchairs and pondered. “It’s just out of reach.” 

“But there’s something here, right?” 

Sherlock nodded. “Certainly. It feels as though we’re coming towards a conclusion, but the particulars aren’t there yet. Tomorrow, I’d like to go walking across the city.” 

John agreed. “I’ll call some friends who might be able to come up here and help us. If we start early tomorrow, we’ll have enough hours of daylight to put a plan together if we find anything.” 

He stood, and pulled out his phone. “I’m going to go make some calls and see if I can find Greg’s room.” 

Sherlock muttered some kind of agreement while his attention turned to the pile of papers on the desk. He felt he had explained himself to John as well as he could. He examined the maps again, the meticulous notes he had taken over the course of the case. It was like having a word on the tip of his tongue - he was close to putting it all together, and felt as though if he could arrange the data in the correct order, he would find his solution. Of course, this was complicated by the thoughts of John that raced through his mind. Married. That was a big enough development, and he had never known - never put together all the clues that said ‘widower.’ He felt petty, but even the realization that before him had existed a best friend that John trusted just as much as him, perhaps more, had shaken him. Sherlock shook his head as though to clear the thought away; he felt pathetic to be entertaining such a complaint, even though his heart ached at the thought of John being hurt and betrayed.

Sherlock pulled out a photograph that had come loose from the pile. Taken from above, it was a group photo of John and a dozen other men and women loosely assembled together in the forest. In the background, a farmhouse glowed in the summer light. Some of the group had their arms hung around each other’s shoulders companionably, while John himself was laughing with a tall blond man - Sebastian, Sherlock presumed. John’s loose scrawl on the back of the photo listed Calimani, 2002 by way of a caption. Sherlock heard John stepping back into the room, and immediately slipped the photograph back into the folder, trying to appear casual as he walked over to bed. 

“I think that’s it for me today. Night,” John said, nodding at Sherlock and pulling off his shirt, dawdling over to his bed. Sherlock looked away, uncharacteristically embarrassed, as John worked at his trousers. 

“Goodnight,” Sherlock answered, robotically. “I’ve set our alarm.”

“Great,” John replied, leaning over and turning off his light. In short order, Sherlock stopped reading through his notes and put on his own pair of pajamas, and slipped into his bed opposite John’s. The headlights of passing cars shone through the windows, and for a time the two men were left with their thoughts. 

“How many died?” Sherlock murmured from across the darkness.

As though expecting him to ask, John replied immediately. “On our side? Fifteen men, two vampires.” After a pause, he added, “On theirs, fifty-one.” He didn’t need to time to remember the number; that was etched on every part of him, down to the smallest cell. It was knowing what his best friend would say that gave him pause.

Sherlock, barely visible in the gloom, raised himself up on one elbow and stared at John.

“That’s it?” 

“Just one of those deaths was enough to destroy my life as I knew it. Imagine what the other sixteen of my friends’ did to me.” He added, “It wasn’t just a matter of living. Everyone was injured in some way. Some lived, but… burned.” 

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. “How did so many survive?”

“Training,” John said, simply. “Being on my base meant being one of the best trained hunters in the western hemisphere. That, and during our drills I had one rule above all others: if things well and truly go to hell, get out. The army can afford new buildings and supplies. The world can’t afford losing its best protection against vampires.”

“You could have stayed in the army,” Sherlock countered. “Given time, I’m sure you would have been commended for maintaining most of the personnel and information you were in charge of.” Sherlock meant it as a compliment - it was not received as such.

There was silence, then a softly muttered, “that’s enough.” John turned over, ending the discussion. 

Sherlock stared at the shape of John’s back a moment longer, then turned back himself. He knew he wasn’t getting much more out of John, but felt irritated all the same. He was the first to admit the nuances of human interaction were confusing, at best, and incomprehensible at worst. He felt, in an unusual moment of shame, that he had performed poorly as a best friend. Gone too far.

“I’m glad you didn’t,” he added, softly. 

In the darkness, he couldn’t see the tentative smile that pulled at John’s lips, but he felt the mood in the room get slightly warmer all the same.


	19. Chapter 19

_“The Castle of Dracula now stood out against the red sky, and every stone of its broken battlements was articulated against the light of the setting sun.”_

 

John woke to the feeling of gravity, as he was gently pulled back on the hotel bed. As he grudgingly opened and rubbed his eyes, he noticed Sherlock sitting cross-legged behind him, tapping away on his laptop. 

“Geyerrownbed,” he muttered, not quite articulate yet.

“The light’s better here,” Sherlock answered. John glanced around - the room was entirely in shade. Sherlock, dressed in a fresh suit, seemed as though he had been awake for hours.

“It’s only nine. Food?” John said, petulantly trying to pull on the covers that were pinning him down from under Sherlock.

“Not yet,” Sherlock replied, eyes still focused on the screen. John sat up and leaned over behind Sherlock’s shoulder, eyes glancing across what he was working on. His body, warm from sleep, radiated on Sherlock’s back, and the detective stirred uncomfortably. John’s breath passed by the nape of his neck gently, and he felt himself stiffen.

“Trying to find Mycroft?” John guessed correctly. 

Sherlock nodded, not inclined to speak at that particular moment. 

“I suppose it’s a good sign you can’t find him. Maybe it means he found who he was looking for, and they disposed of his phone. Whoever ‘they’ are,” John added. “Nothing’s coming up at all?” 

Sherlock sighed, and closed the application. “Nothing of interest. The occasional ping that gives a general radius, but even that’s been landing all over the globe.”

Closing the laptop, he stood. John offered a “sorry,” then stood as well, reaching for his clothes over the back of the desk chair. 

“Government technology,” Sherlock said dismissively. “I should have attached a tracker to him. Actually, Mycroft should have done so himself. Rubbish big brother,” he muttered, sliding the laptop onto a side table. 

John smiled mildly, knowing better than to interrupt one of Sherlock’s tangents. When he was particularly cross, everything became Mycroft’s fault. Especially, however rare it was, when Sherlock was worried about him. 

He slipped a thick green jumper over his shirt and turned on the television, setting it to mute as he checked the weather. Cold and overcast - the quintessential Scottish day. He reached for his gun, but remembered that the collection of gear had been left in Greg’s room. As he wasn’t sharing accommodations, it seemed fair that he would room with the crates of weaponry, charms, and - he hadn’t told Greg this - a small, battery-powered fridge. He made a mental note to remove its contents to his and Sherlock’s room. 

Surprisingly optimistic, John walked over to his bed and flopped back onto the crumpled sheets.

Sherlock glanced over at him. “In a better mood?” 

John smiled, and looked over. “Yeah, actually. I feel like a weight’s been lifted off my shoulders. All things considered.”

Sherlock smiled. “I imagine so.” He would, still, like to hear more about John’s past life, the life he hadn’t been privy to until recently, but was willing to wait. As long as John’s spirits kept up he was content.

“I should get Greg up,” John said, reluctantly heaving himself back up. 

“He’s awake,” Sherlock responded, lifting his phone. “I’ve let him know you’re going over. I’m going to stop in at the Tesco down the road.”

“Fair enough,” he said. “Meet you in the lobby in fifteen?”

Sherlock assented, and started packing up. 

-

When John stepped into Greg’s room, he was surprised to see the DI’s laptop open and a large number of folders open on the cheap hotel desk.

“You’re busy,” John said, putting it mildly. 

“I do this professionally, you know,” Greg replied with a hint of defensiveness. “You’ve lost the dark circles under your eyes. Seems like we’re all getting our bearings again.” 

“It’s nice to have a plan of attack,” John replied. “Speaking of. What are you doing today? I’m taking Sherlock around the city to see if he spots anything out of the ordinary.”

Greg spread a hand across the folders and stacks of photographs on the table. John recognized some from 221B, when he and Sherlock were still privy to official case documents. “Getting Scotland PD on board is the plan today. Take a look at this.” 

He rummaged in the stack of papers and handed a couple of newspapers to John. Circled on the inside pages of both were news articles about murders that had taken place in the city - some with what were called “bite marks,” others that were bloodless. 

“Well done, Greg,” John murmured. 

“It connects the two, which is good enough for me to justify my being here to London,” Greg said, putting down one of his folders with a sense of finality. 

John walked over to one of the crates and reached inside, pulling out his everyday gun and brushing off some of the dust that had gathered on it during transit. “How did the police here take things?”

 

Greg shrugged, and glanced at his phone on the desk. “Bit confused that I connected the case to them. I told them I got an anonymous tip. Once we got to talking about victims, though, that’s when things started falling into place.” 

John removed a few links of silver chain and a stake, and put those in a hidden pocket as well. He didn’t expect to fight anyone today, but figured it was better to be safe. 

“You going to get them to start patrolling the city?” John suggested. 

“I’ll do what I can,” Greg replied, nodding. “It’s hard to tell them I’m expecting another attack without getting them suspicious. Do you want me to have them back you up, when the time comes?”

John shook his head. “Too risky. Just try to keep them posted around the city at night, that’s the best we can expect.”

For the second time in as many minutes, John noticed Greg glancing at his vibrating phone. He pointed at it questioningly.

Lestrade glanced up from his phone. “Oh, just the, you know, ex,” he said, sending off a text and slipping it back in his coat pocket awkwardly. “Today was supposed to be my weekend with the kids. Obviously this is a bit more pressing, so we’re going to have to postpone.”

John sighed. “Sorry, Greg. Hopefully this will be over quickly. If you do have to head back, though…”

The DI looked at John with surprise. “I’m doing more for my kids here than I would be back home. Trust me.”

John finished loading up his coat and clicked his revolver into place, hidden well inside his jacket. 

Lestrade continued, “Not that I’d ever be able to tell them what I’m doing here. That’s a kick in the bollocks, isn’t it?”

John laughed. “Think the kids are hard, try explaining this to the Met when you get home.”

On the other side of the room, Lestrade chuckled and put his own gun into its holster. “I’ve been trying to avoid thinking about it. So far I’ve managed to get them to lay off me by telling them I’m following a lead, and doing it on my own dime.”

“I’m surprised that worked,” John said, “but desperate times. I would imagine they’re out of viable leads.”

Lestrade shook his head, still surprised at the situation he found himself in. “When the answer, for once, is actually ‘vampires,’ I’d imagine so.”

“If it makes things any easier, if there’s a Council left to come back to, after this, they’ll help take care of explanations with your bosses’ bosses,” John said, pulling on some gloves.

“What?” Greg asked. “They’re going to explain that vampires are now a factor in our cases?”

John breathed out heavily with something akin to amusement. “More like, they’re going to get hypnotized into filing this case away quickly. The press will get a general answer of ‘vagrant minors, names cannot be released.’ Families of the victims will get the same answer, with the added benefit of one of the Council’s vampire agents hypnotizing them into accepting what happened. The only people getting the short end of the stick will be you and the rest of the Met, who won’t get much in the way of an explanation from anyone.”

Greg considered this, and was struck by a realization. “Old cops, all of them have these stories about unexplained cases. Huge, glaring irregularities that their superiors shrugged off and refused to speak of again. That’s what’s going to happen to me, then?”

“Yep,” John answered glibly, then clapped Greg on the shoulder as he made his way to the door. “Welcome to the club.”

Greg was left to his own devices.

-

Sherlock and John grabbed a quick breakfast at the hotel and immediately set out for the city core. Walking west, they headed in the general direction of Edinburgh Castle, looming over all. As usual, Sherlock’s brisk strides across the sidewalk left John rushing to catch up. 

“Are we doing this hotter-colder style, or more like Marco Polo?” John asked, trying to get his bearings. He knew the city well, but not quite as well as London.

“Was that English?” Sherlock asked, a hint of mocking in his voice. 

John smiled. “Either I bounce ideas off you til something sticks, or we walk around the city until we feel something.”

“That’s not how we do things,” Sherlock argued, shaking his head. 

“Yeah, it is,” John replied. 

“Perhaps so,” Sherlock agreed grudgingly. “Hotter-colder it is. Your ideas don’t tend to bounce.”

“Ouch,” John said, putting a hand over his heart and feigning shock. “And to think, I was going to buy you lunch.” 

“Damn,” Sherlock replied sarcastically, before leading the pair across the street. He glanced up at the castle in the distance. “Any chance-?” 

“Nah,” John replied, knowing what his friend was considering. “Too many tourists. Too open. Would be a neat place to turn someone, though. There’s something to be said for using places of societal significance to turn someone. Beyond plain old hallowed ground, I mean,” he added, glancing over at Sherlock. 

“Such as?” 

John dithered a moment. “Well, I always thought it would be cool to be turned in the Carpathian Mountain range. Sort of an old school vampire aesthetic.” He shrugged and backtracked a bit. “I mean, if you had to choose. That would be right up there.”

Sherlock and John’s conversation progressed similarly over the next hour as they looped around Castle Rock and continued south, slowly taking in the city as they made their way through Holyrood Park.

“Well, we’ve been at this all morning, Doctor,” Sherlock said, stopping in view of the parliament building. “What’s your verdict?”

John closed his eyes for a moment and breathed in, exhaling into a heavy sigh. “Old Town, definitely. The farther to the edges we go the less I feel.”

“What about the vaults?” Sherlock asked. 

John considered this. Underneath the arches of the South Bridge, subterranean vaults built in the 18th century once hosted all manner of illicit activities, including but not limited to murder. Something about it felt right; however, he wasn’t optimistic.

“Crawling with tourists - it’s a big spot for ghost hunters,” John said, trying not to roll his eyes. 

“Ghosts are-” Sherlock started.

“Don’t even ask,” John said with a firm shake of his head. 

The pair surveyed the land before them, the hills leading up towards Arthur’s Seat. Five hours until sunset. 

“Lunch?” Sherlock asked, hands in the pockets of his long coat. “All this walking should have earned it back.” 

“About damn time,” John answered, and the pair headed down Holyrood Road towards the nearest cafe. John absently moved onto other topics of conversation - Sherlock’s previous trips to Scotland, brief musings on Lestrade’s progress - but the idea of the vaults persisted. Something about it nagged at him.

The cafe they chose was quiet but bright, and they weren’t disturbed by the small number of other patrons across the room. In short order, the pair was filled with coffee and sandwiches, and ready to take their next steps. With a map spread out on the table between them, John brushed the last crumbs off his jeans and pulled out his phone. “I’ve got some voicemails,” he said, glancing at Sherlock. “Just a second.”

Sherlock waved for a waitress, who walked over shyly. From the way her eyes flicked between himself and John, it was clear she was a fan of the blog. Sherlock, averse to ‘fans’ as he was, was pleased - he could at least use it to his advantage. 

“Are the vaults open today?” He said, with a smile false enough that John looked up, brow furrowed, but undeniably amused. “Our map says they’re just down the road.”

“Oh, they were,” the waitress answered cheerfully, excited to converse with the great detective. “I’m afraid they’re closed at the moment. If you were hoping to do a tour this afternoon I could suggest-”

Sherlock cut her off, still bright and happy. “Oh, no! What a shame. And here we came all this way. When do they open again?” 

A bit off-kilter, she replied, “I’m afraid I’m not certain - they closed down for repairs last fall, and their reopening keeps getting pushed ahead. New custodianship, I heard.”

“Pity,” Sherlock said, a genuine smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he looked towards John. “Well, anyways, thank you for all your help…” He trailed away, and the waitress supplied her name. “Alice, great, thanks so much.” 

Clearly a dismissal, the waitress pondered saying something to continue the conversation, but quickly gave up and returned to the counter. 

“Smooth,” John muttered as he closed the call on his phone.

“Closed down,” Sherlock repeated.

“That’s… remarkably promising,” John assented.

“Who called?” Sherlock asked, throwing a last bite of sandwich into his mouth before he started folding the map. 

“A friend of mine, Gabe, just saying he got my message. He said he’s going to try getting some people over here as soon as he can. Aiming for tomorrow, he said. I gave him Molly’s number at the library so she could get us all organized.”

Sherlock nodded. “That should give us time to find something, assuming we’re on the right track.”

John sat back, pondering. “I think we are,” he said, finally. “It all leads here. After the war…” Sherlock stopped moving, making sure John knew he was listening. “After the war I didn’t think I was suited for doing this anymore. It’s been… I don’t know. A mental block, I couldn’t sense things the way I could when I was in my twenties. But for the last couple weeks, I’ve been able to. I’ve tuned in to the city, and whatever is happening, it’s happening here. And soon.”

Sherlock stood and threw his scarf around his next. “Time to explore some vaults, then.”

-

There were entrances to the underground of the bridge in several places, most of which were heavily barred and used only by tourist groups. However, Sherlock was confident that he could find his way in - it couldn’t be harder than Baskerville, and even if it was, the pair had plenty of time before dark. Sure enough, after twenty minutes of searching and intense analysis of maps, Sherlock found a disused emergency exit in a quiet alley. Like the farmhouse in the city, it seemed almost as though the alley itself were supernaturally shielded from prying eyes. Sherlock wasn’t sure he could have found it, map or no map, without John’s assistance; it was a strange shift in roles. 

“My parents took me here when I was a kid,” John said, tracing the stone around the heavy wood door. 

On touching the door itself, however, John immediately stepped back as though slapped. It was like he had landed directly back in that war, and for a moment his senses were assaulted by choking black ash, the smell of his wife’s perfume, and a sense of dread. More than a flashback, it the entrance was lined with a sensory tripwire. All at once, the gravity of what John was doing hit him - he was rusty, had minimal backup and, worst of all, was putting his best friends in almost certain danger.

Sherlock, concerned, grabbed his upper arm and pulled John back to face him.

“Breathe, John, slowly,” he said, quietly. For possibly the first time in his life, Sherlock understood what John was experiencing. More remarkable still, he knew what to do.

“You aren’t in Afghanistan. You’re here, with me, safe. It’s not real, you’re with me.”

Slowly, John stopped squeezing his eyes shut with quite as much force, and regained control of his breathing. “Fucking hell,” he muttered.

Eventually, he shook his head and looked up at Sherlock. “Thanks. That was… good. Did you Google that?”

Sherlock nodded. “After you panicked in Baskerville, it seemed remiss for me not to.” With reluctance, he removed his arms from John’s shoulders. 

Gingerly, Sherlock touched the door himself with the briefest of grazes. “What happened?”

John looked warily at the entrance to the caves. “Psychological blast,” he said, a bit shakily. “Some vampires, not a lot, can create them. It temporarily imbues an object with a memory, or a sensation.”

Sherlock was struck by the cruelty of what had just been inflicted on his friend. “Someone’s guarding against you, specifically, then.” Sherlock said. 

John reached out for the door again, certain that it was a one-time explosion of memory, but Sherlock caught his wrist in a gloved hand. 

“No,” he said firmly. “We know what lies behind that door now. We don’t need to go in unprepared.” 

John slowly lowered his arm. “We’ve found it, we should check it out, shouldn’t we?”

Sherlock gave him a sidelong glance. “Don’t push your luck. We could do with a better map of the interior, before we do anything,” Sherlock said, pulling out his phone and opening one of the government databases Mycroft had once given him access to. 

John, one eye on the door, started leading the pair away. Once they were a safe distance away from the vaults, he resumed speaking. “It’s probably for the best that we didn’t go in,” he admitted, finally coming to terms with what he’d seen. 

“Quite right,” Sherlock said, glancing up from his phone. “It’s possible no one knows we’re here yet. If there are more traps laid in the vaults, and I’m positive there are, then all we’d do is warn them. One can only hope Mycroft has been successful in getting caught - I’m certain that in his interrogation he would find a way to suggest we’re still in London.”

John nodded, and zipped his coat up a little farther against the cold air. “So many uncertainties. I don’t like it.” 

“Nor do I,” Sherlock agreed. The pair continued in silence until they reached the hotel again. 

Greg, to their surprise, was nowhere to be seen. John hoped that meant he’d had good luck with the Scottish Police and was tying the murders in Edinburgh to those in London. Once back in the room, Sherlock tossed his scarf off and tacked the map of the city he had been carrying up on the wall. John cringed, and then sent a silent prayer into the universe that housekeeping wouldn’t notice. He headed over to the sink and drew a glass of water.

From the bathroom, he heard Sherlock’s phone ping with a text notification. Typically, this would have gone unnoticed by John, but when he came out of the bathroom a few minutes later to see Sherlock still staring at the phone, he grew concerned. “What?”

Sherlock glanced at him, stone-faced. 

“What?” John repeated.

“I don’t think Mycroft’s phone was confiscated,” Sherlock said, finally, handing the device to John. From the lock screen, John could see the simple, but meaningful message: below an image of overturned piles of earth, was the word “tonight,” signed MH.

“Tonight,” John repeated, quietly. “Tonight?” He was incredulous - he had counted on having at least a day longer to put his players on the board. 

Sherlock realized another wave of panic was about to hit his friend. 

“Establish a plan,” he instructed.

John glanced at him, then ran a hand over his mouth. “Right then,” he said. “Tonight. Fuck, Mycroft couldn’t have sent us a little more information. What’s tonight? Whatever all this has been leading to, obviously, but what?”

Sherlock watched John pace, but knew no more than he did. 

John gestured at Sherlock’s phone. “That picture, that was a lot of graves. Vampire graves,” His mind raced.

“We’ve taken on plenty of vampires - less than a week ago, as it so happens,” Sherlock said, reminding John of their alleyway escapades in East London.

John laughed derisively. “You have no idea, Sherlock. That was nothing, those vampires were disposable. This is the real thing.” 

The room swam in John’s vision, and he tried to grasp the reality of his situation. “No one can make it here in time,” he muttered. “It’s going to be night soon and I have no trained backup.” 

Sherlock was momentarily annoyed, but John wasn’t wrong. “Greg has the Scottish police on board; I have no doubt he could recruit them.”

“We aren’t bringing more humans into this!” John snapped, officially losing his cool. “They wouldn’t be enough, anyways. I need people who are currently stuck god-knows-where in Romania, people in England who I haven’t even had time to call. There isn’t enough time. There isn’t-” He was verging on hyperventilation. “Either we go in on a suicide mission, or we let more people die. There is no winning scenario here.”

“John,” Sherlock said, then again more firmly, “John!” He was beginning to feel frustrated, not for the first time, with his best friend’s inability to listen to him.

The other man continued to pace. “Even if I brought every seismic charge we have, it still wouldn’t be enough. We have no idea how many of them are down there!”

“For God’s sake,” Sherlock said, dramatically rolling his eyes. With a flourish of his coat, he stepped forward and – before either quite recognized what was happening – tilted his head low enough to meet John’s lips in a kiss. Fuelled by Sherlock’s annoyance at first, the kiss gradually became overpowered by urgency as both men realized what was happening. Making the most of his height, Sherlock pressed John back towards the wall, and felt more in-control of his surroundings than he had in weeks.  
Sherlock found himself holding John’s head between his hands, insistently pressing his tongue at John’s lips until they parted. It was a curious thing, kissing – that was the sole thought that emerged with any coherence through the fog of Sherlock’s brain. Distantly, he realized this was the first time he had ever kissed someone for the sake of wanting to do so, to resolve some kind of sexual impulse.

“This is alright with you?” Sherlock asked as he looked down at John intently, very reluctantly pulling away. He was desperate to get this particular piece of human interaction correct.

“We’ve been attacked by a dozen vampires in the last week, we’re about to go to what will probably be our deaths, and that’s what you’re concerned about?” John said in between deep breaths of air.

Sherlock nodded, taking off his scarf to cool down a bit but never taking his eyes off of John.

“Sexuality, it’s a, um – I think it’s a continuum,” John said, fumbling for words. He stood upright and banged a fist on the wall behind him. “All right, well then. Let’s go.”

Sherlock, still a little bewildered by the encounter, cleared his throat and began walking with John towards the door, not quite sure where the other man was going.

“Ah, fuck it,” he heard John say, as the smaller man turned around and pushed him back into the room, pulling his friend down to his mouth with a hand around the back of the detective’s neck. Sherlock smiled into the kiss and shrugged his coat off, relishing the intimacy and urgency of John’s every movement.

John, with a sense of surprised excitement, could feel Sherlock growing hard against the leg that was pressed between the taller man’s thighs. Accordingly, he pushed forward gently, assessing Sherlock’s reaction to the friction. When Sherlock pushed back against him, John accepted this as a positive response. 

Sherlock pulled at John’s jumper, then began work at the buttons of his shirt. He moved quickly, trying not to lose his nerve - he tried to tell himself that this was his way of slowing John’s panic, of taking his mind off the subject of their impending battle. He knew this to be false. He was selfish, exploring every inch of John that became available as his clothes came off, tasting and touching flesh that he had never before indulged in feeling. 

To his credit, John didn’t rush or stop the detective, merely followed his lead with equal enthusiasm until the pair had shed their clothes in a pile around John’s bed, and the doctor was pressed back into the crumpled hotel linens. John, now as hard as his younger friend, wrapped a leg behind Sherlock’s, bringing his body closer so he could trace a hand down Sherlock’s back, feeling the indentation of each spine, the soft valleys of his ribs. His manhood, wet with excitement, met the soft hairs of Sherlock’s stomach and John, feeling more peaceful than he had in years, felt all worries about that evening drift away.

Leaning over the side of the bed, Sherlock reached into the pocket of his jacket on the floor and pulled out a small, inoffensive bottle of lubricant.

John was impressed, then his brow furrowed. “Wait a minute, you’ve planned ahead. How have you planned ahead? I didn’t know we were getting here.” Sherlock looked at him knowingly, eyebrow raised, and leaned forward to press a kiss to his jawbone. 

John’s eyes widened. “How the hell did you deduce we’d wind up here?”

“Are you going to tell me I’m remarkable?” Sherlock said, practically purring as he ran a hand across John’s chest. 

“I’m, uh,” John felt off-balance, “I’m going to tell you you’re something. How?”

Sherlock, reluctant to speak seriously, leaned on one elbow over John and looked at him, searching his eyes for anything that didn’t signal rejection. 

“I didn’t know. I was hopeful,” he said, honestly. “You had come to terms with your past. If ever there were a time that this could happen, it was now.” He held his breath as John exhaled. 

Instead of answering immediately, John gently cupped Sherlock’s face, and by instinct, Sherlock leaned in to it. He hadn’t realized how touch-starved he was until John came close. 

“Are you sure?” John murmured, meeting his companion’s eyes. 

“Yes,” Sherlock said, with a certainty he didn’t feel. 

John turned the pair over with firm hands, and slowly began to ease Sherlock open with his hands. A muttered “mmh” into John’s ear assured him that he was on the correct track. Pausing in his ministrations, he pulled out the lubricant and Sherlock heard the click of the lid opening. Sherlock, both excited and startled by the noise, moved his hands up from John’s arms towards his shoulders, giving himself leverage as he tilted his own hips forward. John hovered over Sherlock’s mouth, and gently traced the shape of his cupid’s bow with his own lip, before capturing the opposing mouth in a kiss. Carefully, more carefully than he had ever done anything in his life, John slid into him. 

Pain and pleasure burst in sparks behind Sherlock’s involuntarily closed eyelids. He didn’t notice that John had ceased moving until he felt kisses being pressed along his temple and down his neck. John shifted position and met his gaze, giving Sherlock a moment to reassure him that everything was alright. 

John’s slowly rocking hips, unfamiliar at first, gradually developed a feeling in Sherlock’s body that he was unaware could even exist. When John’s hand moved between them to grasp his cock, he let out a moan before he could control himself. Clearly aroused by this vote of enthusiasm, John picked up his pace with a grunt and gasped as Sherlock dug his nails into his back and dragged them down, very nearly drawing blood. 

John’s fangs popped out, and almost by instinct he leaned closer to Sherlock. On cue, Sherlock twisted to the side and urged John’s mouth closer; pain mingled with pleasure as John drank from Sherlock once more, climaxing as he did so. Not long after, Sherlock followed suit between their warm bodies, tired from the exertion. Slowly, John pulled away, much to Sherlock’s distaste, but quickly returned to his side.

As though in a daze, one not entirely due to blood loss, Sherlock stared at the ceiling. John sliced open his right hand thumb, and ran the pad of the finger across the wounds in Sherlock’s neck. The shallow holes healed rapidly, as did John’s self-inflicted cut. Were he in a state to consider it, Sherlock would have been keen to plan an experiment using John’s blood. As it was, he could hardly remember his own name.

John, equally astonished, lay beside Sherlock with their bare upper arms touching in the small bed. 

“You okay?” He asked eventually, glancing over at Sherlock with concern. It was finally dawning on him what had happened.

Sherlock looked towards him, and answered with a kiss. “This is very much ‘okay.’”

John smiled, and pulled Sherlock closer. They would have a great deal of trouble in the hours ahead, but this moment was theirs alone. 

Reluctantly, Sherlock pulled away, worried that either he or John, or both, would fall asleep and miss sunset. Gingerly, he padded into the bathroom, examining every inch of himself that the small surface of the mirror would allow. He dampened a towel and cleaned various fluids off himself. He expected he would have looked different, on the outside, following the experience that he had spent his life avoiding. Yet again, he was surprised to feel that his expectation of a social situation was wrong; rather than feeling ordinary or dirty, he felt special. Were he a romantic man - and he sincerely hoped he wasn’t, though he couldn’t be sure - he would say he felt loved. Nervous, to be sure, but he trusted John implicitly. Perhaps that was what made all the difference.

When he exited the bathroom, he saw John pulling on a fresh t-shirt, this one from the weapons crate, designed for better movement. 

“You seem… better,” Sherlock said, choosing his words carefully. 

John looked up and smiled, glancing away with shyness. Although Sherlock would never recognize it, seeing it in-person, John was equally nervous about the state of their friendship. He, too, was aware that it was a watershed moment.

“You made it a little easier to silence the terror,” he admitted. “‘Devils or no devils, or all the devils at once.’” When great-great-great-great granddad said that, I can imagine his intent behind it was ‘who the hell cares, let’s kill some vampires.’ It has to be done - so let’s do it.”

“I won’t argue with that,” Sherlock said. He began to pull his own clothes back on, dressing less tactically than John. Before he was quite finished, a knock at the door was immediately followed by Lestrade using his own copy of the key card and slipping in.

“Hope you guys weren’t taking a nap,” he said, cheerful, “I’ve got Edinburgh and London working together. Everyone’s thrilled to see another piece of the puzzle.”

Lestrade, sensing something had happened, looked between the pair of men and smiled. 

Slowly, he added, “Oh, and I’ve got the police detachment here on speed dial. What?” Sherlock had narrowed his eyes at him.

“You’re grinning like an idiot, Gavin,” Sherlock said, finishing off one last button on his shirt. 

“Am I? Odd.” The DI didn’t even notice the wrong name being used. “About damn time,” he added, barely audible. 

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched as he broke eye contact and picked up his jacket.


	20. Chapter 20

_“You better stay away from him,_  
_He’ll rip your lungs out, Jim.”_  
Warren Zevon, Werewolves of London

 

It didn’t take long to get Greg up to speed. Like John, he went through his own version of the stages of grief - first denial, then panic, then rapidly to acceptance. Reaching the last step was likely due to the devil-may-care attitude of John and Sherlock, who seemed to embrace going to their deaths with a compelling sense of relish. John directed them all back to Lestrade’s room to itemize their weapons, and Sherlock detoured to the hotel’s business centre to print out yet another map, this one showing a detailed layout of the vaults’ many levels.

As John put together his weapons, he sized up their group’s chances. At best, it would be four against god-knows-how-many opponents, and that was assuming Mycroft was present in the vaults when they arrived. Their worst-case-scenario was forty vampires, but that was only a rough estimate. The numbers were not on their side. However, the quality of their fighters might balance things a bit: John himself was once one of the world’s most talented vampire hunters. He’d gotten slower over the years, to be sure, but he felt himself getting better with each passing hour.

Greg was a trained police officer with decades of experience behind him - if John could set him up on high ground with wooden bullets, Greg would be able to take out plenty of vampires, easily. He knew the DI would offer police backup - he’d already tried several times - but John would much rather take his chances going in with minimal backup than with untrained, unaware civilians. 

Sherlock was the wild card. John had often watched, amused, as his friend practiced baritsu. It wouldn’t be his martial art of choice, but Sherlock seemed to eminently qualified regardless. He’d made sure to teach Sherlock how to shoot a gun properly long ago, so that was an option. Hand-to-hand combat was a little more hit-or-miss, but in general, more hit than miss. 

Sighing, John put his hands on his hips and glanced across everything he had strewn across the bed. He’d faced worse odds, but usually had the benefit of more information. Sherlock chose that moment to come in, and started unfolding the two maps he had just printed, laying them out on the double bed that wasn’t presently covered in weapons. 

“Found anything?” Greg asked, looking up from his own work - John wasn’t sure, but it looked like he was writing down intersections. Hopefully, John thought, so that he could post police guards near the bridge. 

Sherlock smoothed out both maps, and laid them side by side. “Mycroft has come in handy, for once,” he said, exhilarated. 

John walked over, arms crossed. “What’s up?”

“This is the main map,” he said, gesturing to a coloured map, recently dated. “Most maps showing the levels of the vaults that you can download from the internet are variations on this picture from the government database. He flipped it over to show floorplans for each level of the vaults. 

“Okay,” John said, following along. 

“This is the real map,” Sherlock continued, grinning as he pointed at a second, black and white elevation plan. “Edited, to be sure, but correct.”

“Real,” Greg repeated, “not just… older?”

“No, Grant,” Sherlock said, clearly in high spirits - he tended to misname Greg when he was in a good mood. “Older, certainly, but also more accurate. Do you see the lefthand corner, where the vaults begin to curve upwards?”

Lestrade leaned in. “Sure.”

“Look closer,” Sherlock said, circling a black space below the lowest levels of vaults, meant to signify rock. The longer John looked, the more he realized that the particular section of rock that Sherlock was pointing at seemed to be filled in with a slightly lighter shade. 

“It’s like there used to be another vault there,” John observed. This particular compartment seemed to be several times wider and deeper than any of the others.

“Correct,” Sherlock said. “Like I said, this map has been altered. But I’m quite certain it was the original, and the vault that was filled in likely still exists.”

“I guess that’s where we’re heading,” Greg said, smiling. 

“Well done,” John murmured, pleased to have a plan. 

“We’re running out of time,” Greg said as Sherlock glanced at his watch, adding, “less than an hour until sunset.”

“It’s best we start moving this along,” Sherlock said, firmly. I would say we take the door here,” he pointed at the entrance they had taken earlier that day, “and loop around to the hidden vault along this side path.” He pointed at one of two plausible entrances to the underground cavern.

John accepted this plan, and immediately began making a call on his phone. He did not receive a busy signal, only silence. He tried a second number, and was met with continuous ringing.

“Trying to call your backup?” Sherlock asked. 

John, not particularly hopeful, tried a third number. This call went directly to voicemail.

“No luck?” Greg asked.

John shook his head, jittery, and nearly leapt out of his skin when the hotel phone, on the table, started ringing loudly. Greg and Sherlock stopped moving and watched him as he read the caller ID.

“Hi Molly,” John said, picking up the phone, trying his best to keep the disappointment out of his voice. He hit the speakerphone button. “How are things in London?”

Molly appeared to be having a similar problem, offering a tepid, “Fine, Edinburgh?” 

There was a pause on the line, which John broke. 

“Fairly terrible, it’s happening tonight. Tell me you’ve found something.”

“Er - nothing you’re going to like,” she admitted. 

Sherlock spoke loud enough for Molly to hear. “What?”

“Well, you know I’ve been looking into everything I can about this. Vampire lore about turning on moon phases, why some of these vampires that have attacked us are like - ah, zombies,” she didn’t ask John if they were real, but the unasked question hung in the air regardless. “Anyways, what really bothered me was Jane, she mentioned the reoccurence of ‘army trio,’ and you recognized that name.”

“Right,” John replied. “The guys that died, the group of Americans. They were selected at the same time, so they stood out.” 

“Yes, but,” Molly said, emphasizing the second word, “I kept dwelling on it, something stuck in my subconscious, I guess. I think it’s an anagram.”

The wheels in Sherlock’s head turned, and he realized the answer before Greg or John. 

“Fuck,” he said, monotone. 

John nearly took a step back - he couldn’t quite remember the last time Sherlock swore.

“Anagram of what?” Greg asked, finally.

“Moriarty?” she said, answering with a question.

There was silence as the group rearranged the letters.

“Shit,” John said, looking at Sherlock, who had abandoned his maps and walked over to the phone. “She’s right. That really does make perfect sense. Of course he’d find a way to screw with us.”

Sherlock seemed to stand up straighter, and any sense of excitement for that night fell away. His face became set and serious, and his hand - previously tapping on the band of his watch - stilled. He now had a stake in the game.

“Tell me you guys have a plan,” Molly said, clearly worried. 

“In a sense,” John answered, glancing up at Sherlock. “Sherlock will text you coordinates, you be sure to pass them along if anyone needs to find us.”

“Sure,” Molly replied. “You’re sure you’re going after them tonight? You can’t postpone? I haven’t heard back from anyone else. We need more time.”

John sighed. “I know, Molly. I do. We just don’t have it.” 

Reluctantly, they said their goodbyes, and the moment they hung up packing swung into full gear. 

John pointed at various weapons and as he did so, Greg and Sherlock picked them up. 

“We can’t go through the streets carrying the big stuff,” he said, thinking just as quickly as he spoke. “That means we’re doing this without rifles and crossbows. Probably for the best. Sherlock, you’re taking my pistol, silver chains, and a shoulder holster. Greg, same idea, take the Ruger, bandolier and,” he looked around the bed “a silver glove. Wooden and silver bullets for the both of you. You should have plenty of places for stakes, so grab a couple of those as well and make sure they’re covered by your coat. Oh, and whoever has room, take a crowbar. I don’t think we’ll be able to avoid it.”

John himself began loading up gear, tending more towards hands-on combat weapons - blades, stakes, and what Sherlock thought was a sai being slipped into a custom-made slot near the back of John’s cross-body holster. One gun made the cut, along with several dozen silver bullets. Once zipped up, the group could pass as ordinary, if slightly uncomfortable-looking, visitors to the city.

“Ready?” Greg asked the other two, eyes bright with excitement and panic. 

John and Sherlock agreed, and began to leave. John stopped. 

“Actually, one more thing,” he said, hanging back. “I’ll meet you outside.” 

Lestrade and Sherlock continued out, but it wasn’t long before Sherlock came back in the room, closing the door softly behind him. 

“I’m on my way, John said, eyeing the small fridge to his right. 

Sherlock didn’t answer, instead coming closer and wrapping John in a hug. The pair was quiet, simply breathing in and out for a few moments. 

“We should have done this sooner,” John murmured, trying to lean into the hug, but worried he might pierce something vital if he pushed against the weapons under his coat too hard. 

“Let’s not think of it that way,” Sherlock answered. He stepped back and surveyed John. “I doubt you came here to have a quiet moment.”

“No, I need to, ah,” he searched for words. His intermittent glances at the fridge were enough to clue Sherlock in, and he gestured towards the small, humming appliance. 

 

“Be my guest,” the detective said, indifferent.

“This is going to gross you out,” John warned, looking at his friend seriously, as he pulled out a few bags of blood from the fridge. “I don’t want to hear any complaints.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Can’t be worse than watching you eat pizza.”

John let out a short laugh, and without further delay, tilted the first bag upwards. Sherlock watched with fascination, not saying a word, as promised. The first was followed by a second, then a third. As John rubbed the back of a hand across his mouth, he glanced up at Sherlock awkwardly, and was greeted with a smile.

John glanced around the room, and accepted that there was nothing left to delay for. He wondered if the pair of them would ever return.

-

“So, you’re telling me that this door might channel a blast of memory right into my head? Are we sure we have to touch it?” Greg asked. The group was very nearly at the entrance to the vaults, and as Greg had been entrusted with the crowbar, he was most concerned about the process of getting into the vaults themselves.

“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” John said, trying to be reassuring. “No one has any idea you’re here.”

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, and I do this everyday, you know,” he said, and started muttering about the insane divergence his life had taken. Slipping past a crowd of pedestrians just outside the alleyway, Sherlock led the group to the emergency entrance. It looked the way it had earlier in the day, grime on the sides of the doorframe untouched. 

John glanced up the street, and noticed that the light was thinner and nearly behind one of the buildings. “Best to hurry now, I think.” 

Greg looked up and down the street surreptitiously, then inserted the crowbar next to the curved iron door handle. “I’m a police officer,” he said quietly, reassuring himself before he broke into the closed vaults. 

“Quietly now,” John murmured as he glanced up towards the busy road to their left. 

Greg stopped and stared at him, mouth pursed. “Seriously?” 

John glanced back at Greg. “Sorry. Quickly?”

Greg sighed and pushed harder at the door. A crack could be heard, then the door swung slightly inwards. He gestured at it. “Shall we?”

Sherlock led them in, and once everyone was in the narrow stone hall, John pushed on the door until it clicked firmly into place. Sherlock pulled out a torch from his coat and illuminated the otherwise pitch black cavern. 

“Smells wet,” Greg noted. 

“Smells dead,” John corrected. “There have definitely been vampires down here.” He ran his light around the room. The low walls were lined with what looked like small berths.

“This way,” Sherlock said quietly, conscious of the echo in the small stone room. He gestured at an arch ahead of them. There were few doors in the vaults, but every so often they would have to wait for Greg to pry one open. Some rooms were wide, but the group had to traverse across them hunched over. Other passageways narrow, and they had to progress single file. At one point, Sherlock had to stop and consider two forked routes; trying to transpose his map onto the reality in front of him was not as easy a task as he expected. 

Soon, they reached a corridor, this one far from the central line of vaults they had been following, and Sherlock stopped. “I think it’s through that wall, then north.” 

“Sorry, did you say through?” Greg asked. Sherlock shrugged. 

John walked forward slowly. Hand outstretched, he moved towards what appeared to be a solid stone wall. However, his hand seemed to pass through it entirely. He glanced back at his friends. “Another illusion.” 

Sherlock and Greg followed him, and with varying levels of enthusiasm, passed through the wall as well, Greg with his eyes closed. Once through, they looked back - the wall clearly no longer existed. As their eyes adjusted to the darkness, they saw one remaining passageway. John progressed forward down the newly revealed hall towards yet another wood door, this one covered with wrought silver symbols across its face. It took a surprisingly long while to reach, and by the time they came close enough to touch it, they were several flights lower than where they had begun. 

“This is it?” John asked Sherlock, flexing his right hand as he brought it closer to the door. 

“This is it,” Sherlock answered, sure that they were in the correct place. “Careful -” he began, but too late; John was already pressing his palm softly on the center of the door. 

John glanced around and shook his head; this one wasn’t a trap. He leaned closer and pressed his ear to the door; with the addition of fresh blood to his body, John’s senses were heightened. Even so, he heard nothing. He pulled back and straightened his shoulders, getting himself into a neutral, solid position. He drew one of his long, sharp daggers, and his companions drew their guns. Sherlock turned off his torch and slipped it back in his coat. “Ahead,” John said, turning his head slightly. Carefully, he pulled open the door. 

To John’s surprise, they weren’t met with total darkness: across the cavernous vault, there were flickering candles along the wall. They attempted to move gingerly into the room, keeping to the edge of the stone. It took a moment for the group’s eyes to adjust, and just as they were beginning to see rows on rows of graves, four vampires came out of the darkness to their sides. John was first to react, and had a knife through the first vampire by the time the men behind him were able to fire. Sherlock’s first shot missed, but the second struck home and took off a great deal of a hissing vampire’s shoulder. The creature expressed something akin to an expletive, and John realized with wonder that he was finally dealing with a proper vampire - turned years ago, not recently. 

As he turned towards his own opponent, he was surprised to see he knew the creature before him from a fight in Chisinau years earlier. He pulled out his knife, and after some grappling with the vampire, was able to swing his blade directly through its throat, decapitating it. He was beginning to wonder why Greg hadn’t had any luck firing, when he saw that two vampires of the group had his arms, and were holding him in place, not killing him. This moment of surprise was enough to put him at a disadvantage, and in the moment his knife hand dropped, he felt the end of a rifle touch the back of his head. 

“That’s quite enough, isn’t it?” a voice said from behind him. 

John sighed. Even years later, he recognized the man’s Lancashire accent the moment he heard it. Across from him, the fourth vampire grabbed Sherlock’s hands, and roughly pulled them behind his back.

Against all advice John would have given him, Lestrade began to fight back against the vampires holding him. John could hear his rapidly beating heart, and assumed he was having a sudden attack of claustrophobia. Keeping him in position, one vampire twisted his left arm back until a crack could be heard; both John and Sherlock cringed away. Still, even screaming, Lestrade managed to free his right arm and landed a punch directly on the vampire in front of him. This punch was returned to him threefold, and by the time the vampire stepped away and his friends could see him, Greg hung limp and bleeding, barely able to keep his head up. 

“There we go,” the voice said, and roughly pushed John forward. The vampires followed, and the group was slowly led to the centre of the high-ceilinged vault, walking between the graves. An oak desk, incongruous on the packed earth floor, sat among the graves, knickknacks and papers strewn across it. “We’ve got guests,” the voice called. After that, there was silence. 

“Sebastian,” John said. “Long time no see.”

John felt the gun drop from behind his head, and Sebastian walked around John in a wide circle, keeping a safe berth. Sebastian looked much the same as John remembered, but a scar stretched between his right temple and through one of his eyebrows. John recalled inflicting it; it hadn’t healed well. 

Sebastian didn’t reply. Instead, he surveyed John, both hands still on his rifle. 

“This is what you’re up to lately? Hiding in caves?” John said, trying to provoke the other man. 

“You have no idea,” Sebastian said with disdain. 

“Boys, no need to fight,” a lilting voice called from a distant vault. A slightly unhinged laugh echoed through the caverns, and Sherlock’s eyes blew wide. As his heart began to beat twice as fast, he flashed back to Baskerville, remembering how deeply his fear of Moriarty ran, no matter how much he tried to deny it.

“Stay awhile, won’t you?” Moriarty teased as he entered the cavern, looking much the same as he did the last time they saw him. With a wave of his hand, the vampires before him began systematically pulling the coats off the men in front of him, tossing their weapons well away. 

“I’ve gotta be honest,” Moriarty said, grinning and leaning over the chair behind the desk. “I wasn’t expecting you would actually show up. You took so long - did I cause you any trouble?” he asked, walking around the desk and surveying John. 

“No more than usual,” John muttered. 

“Oh, and here Mycroft was telling me you weren’t any fun,” Moriarty said, clapping his hands together. “Not as fun as Sherlock, anyways.” He turned to face him as he spoke his name. “Did you miss your brother, I wonder?” 

Moriarty, still smiling, looked to the corner of the vaults, through to a smaller room. Slowly, Mycroft came through, stepping slowly and deliberately forward. John was impressed by the expressionless facade Mycroft was able to keep, and for a moment almost forgot the politician was on their side. 

“He turned Mycroft himself,” Moriarty said, glancing over at John. John was confused, but didn’t take the bait.

“Mycroft’s dead?” the group heard Greg ask through broken teeth, and John felt a rush of pride for the DI, still following the plan.

“Afraid so,” Moriarty said, practically humming with excitement. He turned on his heel to face Sebastian, and leaned back on the desk. “Such a pleasant surprise, having witnesses. And here Mycroft thought they were still in London.” 

Standing behind Sebastian and Moriarty, Mycroft was able to make brief eye contact with John. The message was clear: whenever you’re ready.

However, John wanted to keep them talking, now that they were here. And in the midst of so many graves, a part of John was desperate to learn what was being planned. 

“Witnesses for what?” Sherlock asked before John could. 

Moriarty smiled benevolently. “The day vampires take back the earth.” 

“You’ve killed a lot of people trying to make vampires,” John said, unamused. “Haven’t seen much proof that you’ve made any good ones.” 

Moriarty frowned. “Good work takes time, Doctor Watson. Experimentation. Once we perfect what we’ve been working on… Well. Some turns work out better than others.” He smiled again, and as he did so, two sharp, white fangs appeared in his mouth. Sherlock instinctively tried to move back but was held in place by the vampire behind him.

“So you’re trying to build an army, then?” John asked. 

Moriarty circled around him, more cat-like than ever as an immortal. “Better than that. Normal vampires are impressive, certainly,” he flexed a hand, and watched the torchlight shine off of skin as hard as granite. “But they’re too independent - I think we can do better. Dracula, after all, could create monomaniacal servants - or so we’ve been reliably informed.”

“Informed by whom?” Sherlock asked. 

Moriarty cracked the bones of his neck as he turned to face Sherlock in his reptilian fashion. 

“The man himself,” Moriarty answered, a fire burning deep in his eyes. At saying this, he came closer to Sherlock, who was still restrained - John could see Sherlock trying to pull back as Moriarty eyed the taller man’s neck, barely a breath away. 

“Dracula’s Book of the Undead,” John said, voice rough, as he looked between the men in front of him. He was angry - no - jealous? Yes, that was it. Not for the first time, but it was the first time he correctly identified the emotion as it related to Sherlock.

Sebastian smirked, and Moriarty seemed just as pleased. John was immediately glad he and Sherlock had discussed this on the train ride over - both knew Moriarty’s book wasn’t genuine, but continued to play along.

“There we go!” the criminal mastermind commented, taking a few steps back in order to survey John. “I wondered when you’d get there. Yes, it’s taken awhile to decipher the notes, but I’m quite confident we’ve got it right now.”

John was momentarily baffled. “All the murders - that’s trial and error?

“Hasn’t been a total loss,” Sebastian drawled. “We can create vampires that are perfect soldiers - they obey, they kill, they’re disposal.”

“We’ve met them,” Sherlock said, but Sebastian ignored him.

“We can give a vampire blood that will fill him with rage, take away his will, control him from afar,” he said, spreading his hands. “We can create them in whatever way we like.”

John felt the implication in the increased beating of Sherlock’s heart long before he consciously recognized what Sebastian had said. That was the mistake he and Sherlock had been waiting for.

“It’s not forty,” Sherlock murmured, just loud enough for John to hear him.

“What was that?” Moriarty snapped, mood swinging back to hardly suppressed rage.

A smile played at the edge of John’s lips. “I was working under the assumption every dead body we found meant at least ten full fledged newborn vampires… But that’s not exactly the ratio you’re working at, is it? Not for what you’re doing, anyways.”

A flicker of annoyance crossed Moriarty’s otherwise controlled face.

“You don’t have an army yet, because you think you’re aiming for quality, creating these vampires, rather than quantity.” He couldn’t help laughing. 

“That’s a relief,” Sherlock added, rather glibly. 

A sad wheeze, likely an attempt at a laugh, emitted from Detective Lestrade.

“Also explains why there were drained bodies with no marks on them,” John said, connecting the last of the dots. “They were turned, healed themselves as vampires, then died again.”

Moriarty laughed at this, in his usual, vaguely unsettling manner. Sherlock’s skin prickled – it was a laugh that lasted just a fraction of a second too long, so slightly unhinged that made Moriarty’s other unusual qualities more visible. There was silence, then Moriarty spoke abruptly. “Oh, darling. If all we wanted was an army, I wouldn’t have bothered playing with you two.” He winked at Sherlock. “Well, that’s not completely true. I would have played with you a little bit.”

He walked along one of the rows of graves, gesturing at the piles of soil. 

“That was the appetizer, making sure the book was functional. This is the main course,” he said, stopping at the foot of one grave and looking down at it, thoughtful. “We’re going to create daywalkers.”

“Daywalkers-?” John started, and was tempted to start walking forward when Sebastian turned and gestured at him with his rifle. He moved back into place. “You can’t turn a vampire that way,” John said seriously. “That’s not how it works.”

“No?” Moriarty asked rhetorically. He ignored John continued to speak. “It was said…” he murmured, softly running a hand across the rich wet dirt. “It was said that Dracula could raise an army of the dead, and allow them to walk in the daylight as he did.”

“It can’t be done,” John said, coolly, “least of all by you.” 

Finally, John pressed his luck too far, and with supernatural speed Moriarty moved forward and grabbed John’s neck between one of his hands like a vice. Sebastian trained his rifle on Sherlock, ensuring John wouldn’t fight back.

“The book states that it can be done, and it will be - tonight,” he said, staring into John’s eyes a little longer before releasing him. “The things that book could tell you…” He walked towards Sherlock again, leaning in towards his ear, and murmured, just loud enough for John to hear, “we could bring back Dracula himself, if we wanted to.”

“Jim,” Sebastian said firmly, running out of patience.

“Anyway,” Moriarty said, backing off with a grin. “The notes are difficult to read, but it’s clear there are three steps for creating daywalkers. We’ve had some trouble with the first,” he said, smiling knowingly at Sebastian. “Moon phases are a tricky thing, but it seems the verdict is that it needs to be on a particular moon. And we’ve tried full moons, new moons, moons in between. What we’ve needed was a Black Moon. Which, coincidentally, is happening tonight. Care to guess the next step, Doctor Watson?” Moriarty asked, wheeling back towards John, pacing like a caged animal. 

“Hallowed ground?” John asked, trying to find a way to get near his gun.

“Oh, close, but no cigar!” Moriarty said, spreading his arms towards the recently filled graves. He gestured at the rich soil. “Dirt, actually, that’s the key. I know you’ve noticed it, John.” He gestured at the soil that was spread across the graves in the vault. John had, indeed, noticed it had a peculiar yet familiar smell, but hadn’t placed it. “From the Carpathian Mountains, to Carfax, to here – you’ve got to admit, there’s a certain kind of poetic symmetry in it.”

“Soil Dracula slept in,” John said, for the first time moderately impressed. 

“Soil from the land of the first vampire, to be correct,” Moriarty pouted.

Sherlock glanced over at Greg, who had finally given in to unconsciousness; he wondered how hard the DI had been hit. He tried to rush Moriarty’s monologuing along. “And the third, fairy dust?” 

Moriarty didn’t notice his mocking tone. 

“No,” he said, softly, speaking more seriously than he had all evening. “Blood of the King.” 

This comment landed in the room like an iron weight.

“Dracula is dead,” John said, firmly, and with a great deal of harshness in his voice.

“And the man who killed him took his crown,” Moriarty said, mockingly. “He’s not one for advertising himself.”

John glanced over at Sebastian, who still held his rifle, ready to shoot at any moment. In the silence following his words, John attempted to reconcile what he hoped was true and what he knew. Accepting the most likely possibility seemed impossible.

“I don’t always work alone, you know,” Moriarty murmured, and as the echo of his voice faded out, steps along the stone work of the passages far ahead could be heard, slowly coming closer. Sherlock shifted to try and see down the hall, and Mycroft glanced at him briefly, willing him to stay still. 

Soon, a man, younger than John, entered the cavern. He stepped slowly but deliberately - he was perfectly at ease, and by Moriarty’s immediate bowing of the head, clearly in charge. He wore a well-fitting suit, much like Moriarty’s, and his straight black hair was swept back from his forehead. Were it not for the fangs visible in his slightly open mouth, he would look out of place in the dark vault. 

John backed away, mouth agape. His family kept records, photographs, stretching back to the nineteenth century. He knew the face before him as well as his own.

“Jonathan Harker. But, you, you’re not…” He looked back and forth between Sebastian and Moriarty, who was smiling broadly. “You were the greatest hunter of your day. My parents named me after you. You died.”

The corners of Harker’s eyes crinkled as he smiled joylessly. For a moment, John was unnerved by how similar he looked to Sherlock.

“Not entirely,” he said softly, and walked over to the desk. Seemingly indifferent to the prisoners in front of him, he began looking through some of the papers on the desk. He glanced towards Moriarty. “I was not expecting guests. Are we still on schedule?” 

Moriarty grinned broadly, and shook his sleeve up to glance at his watch. “We’re well past sunset, and the moon is in position. Ready whenever you are.” 

Jonathan nodded and set the papers in order gently, with long nimble fingers. In a bid to delay the vampires, while also wanting to satisfy his curiosity, John spoke. 

“You’ve been turned,” he stated, then asked, “you were made vampire?” 

Jonathan looked up, as though surprised John could speak. “Yes. Well over a hundred years ago, now - I drank from the oldest, the most powerful vampires. Brought myself to death and buried myself. Then I destroyed them. Established my dominance over them.” He walked around the side of the desk, and walked towards John. The power that came off him was palpable.

“There can only be one king,” Harker continued, “and if you won’t kill for the position, you don’t deserve it.”

“What are you doing?” John asked, horrified. He understood the wisdom in never meeting your heroes, but this was a betrayal he couldn’t have expected.

“Finishing what the Count started,” he replied simply, as though speaking to a child.

Figures shifted in the dark and John realized that while he was focusing on Harker more vampires had entered the room - these ones clearly older, seemingly able to become ether and drift within the shadows. He swallowed heavily, and tried to focus; he knew Old Ones had to be involved somehow, but to see them in person was still a shock to the system.

“Killing innocent humans? Drinking your way through London? Which part?” John asked, exasperated, and Sherlock shot him a warning look. It was an expression that said ‘cool the sarcasm.’ 

Jonathan offered what could possibly be considered a hint of a smile. “Reminding humans of the need to destroy vampirism, of course.”

“Reminding-” John didn’t get any further. He was, once again, lost. 

Sebastian spoke again. “Imagine it - vampires throughout the world, virtually unnoticeable because they walk in the sun. All under Harker’s control - sleeper agents. They’ll go about their lives as normal - blood drinking aside - until their master calls. And when he does… the war can begin.”

“For Christ’s sake, Sebastian,” John said, “Why would you want a war? Power? Innocent people will die.” 

Sebastian sneered. “Power,” he said, distaste dripping from every syllable. “Innocent people die every day that vampires walk the earth, unprotected because people like you won’t tell them what threat exists. Once vampires became the earth’s strongest predators, hunters will go back to the top of the food chain. It will be our best chance to eradicate them all.” 

John paused, gaping at Sebastian, as the realization hit him. “All this time,” he murmured. “All this time I thought you were on the side of the vampires. You want to see the hunters succeed?” He asked, baffled. “The problem was that you didn’t think I was going far enough?”

“Our species are incompatible - you made us work with them. Work for them." Sebastian said angrily, lowering his rifle as he marched forward to John. “How could hunters trust someone whose mother is a vampire? Who is a vampire?” 

A smile briefly flared on John’s lips, and Sherlock involuntarily stepped away as far as he was able. A smile like that only appeared when John was about to hit someone. 

John looked away, trying to keep his temper under control, at the figures in the shadows. He knew who they were, in spite of never having met them. He made eye contact with Jonathan. “You’ve recruited Old Ones. Vampires who never integrated with society. You know you’re at opposite purposes, don’t you?” 

Harker shrugged. “We disagree on the specifics of this war. I’m quite confident the humans will win - they’ve set down their bets on the opposing side.”

“He turned himself for the good of the cause,” Sherlock murmured, quiet enough for only John to hear him.

John shook his head and spoke, standing up straight and looking at Jonathan without any fear. “You are insane.”

“Ah, of course, but wait,” Jonathan said, mocking. “You don’t wish to kill vampires, only keep them in line if they kill humans - as they are biologically engineered to do. Foolish,” he spat. 

“It’s been a century!” John said, finally raising his voice. “Things have changed!”

“Nothing has changed!” Jonathan yelled back. “Vampires and humans are not compatible - will not be, cannot be. And I will ensure it.”

Harker turned back to his desk and rifled through papers. Sherlock spotted names and addresses, and a great number of photographs of various warehouses and symbols. Finally, Harker pulled a thin, bone-handled knife from under a pile of notebooks. 

“I was a fast friend of your grandfather, John,” Harker murmured as he turned from the desk and began to walk along the graves, making his last preparations. “And I know you take pride in your lineage as a hunter. In time, you’ll come to see that this was a boon to humanity.”

John diverged and took a different approach. “You’re betting an awful lot on having used the right book.” If he had an ace up his sleeve, this was his last chance to use it. “Sebastian’s going to need to ask himself where he found that book - the second basement, or the third. I hope working for these guys was worth it,” he added, shooting Sebastian a fiery glance.

Something flickered across Sebastian’s face. John was certain it was self-doubt. 

No such emotion reached Jonathan, too far removed from humanity. “I will take my chances.” 

With the knife in his left hand, Harker cut into his right-hand palm, watching the blood pool. Walking into the sea of graves, he extended his arm, and turned his cupped hand over. He spoke a few words quietly in an ancient language, and the echo in the chamber magnified his voice. “Rise.”

For a moment, nothing happened, and John worried all their tribulation would be for nothing. Suddenly, a rumbling began. Not so much loud as deep, as though the earth itself were splitting open. As hands rose from the earth, John involuntarily moved towards Sherlock; this time, the vampires didn’t pull him back. Everyone was too focused on what was happening around them. 

John felt confident, but not certain, that whatever book Sebastian and company had used to raise their army was not the true Book of the Undead. However, that didn’t mean that they hadn’t worked a spell that held some kind of power to it. Indeed, loathe as he was to admit it, John knew a lot of vampire lore related to blood sacrifices and hierarchies. Knowing Jonathan did indeed participate in killing Dracula, it was quite possible that he was King - though that didn’t mean he’d be able to create daywalkers.

Men and women, of various ages and ethnicities, rose from the ground, disoriented and fanged. On balance, the turn seemed to be successful - these were not the vampires that had attacked Sherlock and John in alleyways and in the hospital; they still seemed to have their wits about them, could still behave like they did when they were human. 

With pride, Harker walked through the aisles between graves and surveyed his creations, hands behind his back as they staggered upright onto more solid ground. “To attention,” he said, softly, and all fifty vampires immediately straightened up and locked eyes on their maker. “Very good.” 

Almost hungrily, Moriarty paced among the men and women. “Well done,” he said excitably. “I’ll need to borrow some of these guys.”

“Mr. Moriarty,” Jonathan said firmly, “arrange to move the newborns. We’ll need to prepare them and have them sent home shortly.”

“Yes, Master,” he replied excitably. As he walked uncomfortably closely to Sherlock, he muttered, “the sheer number of holiday travellers, university students, general vagrants I’ve had to relocate is astounding.” He rolled his eyes. 

“We’ll put them back in place, and call them when they’re needed,” Harker said with a tone of finality, as Moriarty picked up a clipboard and began marking off vampires. 

“I will not let you use these people whose lives you’ve stolen to start this war for you,” John said, setting his jaw and clenching his fists. It was almost time. 

“Newborns,” Harker said, frowning, “kill the Captain.”

The vampires slowly began turning their heads toward John, who had expected he could hold Harker at bay just a little longer. 

“I would have preferred to work with you, John, but I do not have time to argue,” Harker continued, and leaned back on his desk to survey his creations’ first kill. In the moment before the chaos broke out, Sherlock’s gaze landed on Mycroft, and the pair locked eyes. For a moment, possibly the first in their lives as brothers, they understood one another perfectly. 

Mycroft, taking advantage of his superhuman speed, reached Sebastian’s rifle and pried it from his grasp. Eyes widening in uncharacteristic surprise, Sebastian tried to pull it back and was met with the butt of it in his jaw. The moment he staggered back, John lunged for the vampires on either side of Sherlock. Even without weapons in hand, he was a force to be reckoned with, particularly when he was full of fresh blood. 

Making the most of his opponent’s dazed state, Mycroft swung the rifle in his hands against the side of Sebastian’s temple, and the man fell to the floor. John knew he couldn’t count on his unconsciousness very long, and tried to make the most of it. Using his shorter height, he swung into the larger vampire of the two holding Sherlock, and brought a knee into the vampire’s ribcage with enough force to temporarily break some bones. More angry than pained, the vampire released its grip on Sherlock and began reaching for John’s neck. John pulled a slim dagger from the waistband of the vampire’s jeans and with a few quick slashes separated its neck far enough from its body that it would take a few hours to heal, at the very least. This done, he moved over to Greg’s captor and took him on in a similar fashion.

“Behind you,” Sherlock said, unfazed, as he ducked down, narrowly missing the stake Mycroft sent flying through the head of the vampire beside him. “I haven’t seen this much legwork from you in years, brother mine,” he commented, running around the horde of newborn vampires towards his brother, who had picked up weapons from the pile that had been confiscated from Sherlock, Greg, and John.

“Some occasions call for it, unfortunately,” Mycroft said, smiling, as he picked up another stake and turned towards Moriarty. 

John turned around at Sherlock’s warning, and noticed the crowd of pale vampires, licking their lips and baring their fangs as they came closer. John tried to weigh his options and figure out what path would cause the least damage. Although the newborn vampires would obey their master implicitly, they didn’t have more than an instinctual ability to fight. Beyond that, they had just woken up - they were still slow and disoriented. John, to his credit, had both instinct and training. He was reluctant to harm any of the newborns - it wasn’t their fault Harker and Moriarty had been able to kill and turn them - but he also couldn’t knew their allegiance was to an enemy, whether they liked it or not. In the pit of his stomach, he knew this was the Mary problem all over again. 

“Sherlock?” John called, keeping his eyes on the vampires in front of him as he backed away. “In my coat, I’ve got some silver chains and some stakes, could you pass them over?” Sherlock did as asked, looping around the room towards John and handing off a few lengths of chain. This done, he moved towards Greg and gingerly moved the DI back towards the wall, and settled him down in one of the alcoves. He was, fortunately, still breathing, but clearly wouldn’t be much help fighting. 

Harker, watching the scene unfold, didn’t express any emotion one way or another. John imagined he expected that the numbers were on his side, and he had little to worry about. Indeed, the old vampire leaned back against his desk, arms crossed, as he surveyed the crowd, occasionally muttering directives to his progeny. 

With Moriarty being backed into a corner by Mycroft, John was able to turn his attention to the back shadows of the cavern, towards the Old Ones he had seen earlier. He had expected more trouble from them, but evidently they couldn’t be bothered - upon noticing John watching them, they slipped out with the subtlety with which they came in.

John shrugged and turned back to the advancing crowd, and glanced at Sherlock - he seemed to be in high spirits, holding some silver netting and slipping a gun and shoulder holster across his body. 

“I go left, you go right,” John said, glancing at his friend. Sherlock nodded, and tried dragging the attention of some of the vampires away. 

John pulled two vampires from the crowd, looping silver chains around their hands as they hissed at him, eyes blank and black, blown wide by the power of Harker’s hypnotic command. So long as he could keep them from biting him anywhere essential, John wasn’t especially worried - however, they were using their not-inconsiderable strength to aim their fangs at his jugular. After a struggle, he was able to throw them to the ground, and drive a long pin through their chains into the dirt. Pulling it out would require pulling against the silver, and John couldn’t imagine newborns would be keen to push that sensation very far. 

John glanced up at Harker, whose attention had finally landed on Mycroft and Moriarty. The pair was locked more in a battle of wits than in brawn, with Mycroft attempting to back Moriarty into the wall. Moriarty would occasionally dodge forward towards Mycroft, who seemed stable and control of his stake, to the extent that he didn’t notice Harker coming up behind him. John walked back towards Sherlock and borrowed his gun, firing a shot towards Harker, but missing, as a vampire came towards him and grabbed him. 

Distracted, he wrestled with the creature - a heavyset woman of about sixty, more muscular than John would expect - finding himself unable to pin the vampire down as she gained speed and confidence in her newly powerful body. Reluctantly, as he felt himself pushed onto his back, John pulled one of the thinner chains of silver and wrapped it around her neck, garroting her and allowing him to turn her over. Being so recently deceased, when John watched the consciousness leave her eyes, she didn’t dissolve or turn to ash - she simply looked human once more, freed from the hell of immortality under a cruel master. 

Looking up, John was surprised to see he hadn’t missed Harker entirely - his hand was bleeding and smoking where a silver bullet had nearly blown through his palm. The vampire, who had seemed more or less composed and human throughout their encounter - fangs aside - now bared his teeth and hissed, screaming something inarticulate at his progeny as he gestured towards Sherlock and John. Finally, one of the newborns broke out of the fugue state he seemed to be in, and rushed at John. Slightly late on the uptake, John was tackled and felt the vampire biting at the skin it landed on, across his arms. 

“Oh, come on,” he said, throwing the vampire off and baring his own fangs. “That’s just weird.” 

The vampire that was attacking him was a young man in jeans and a t-shirt, dirtied from his underground slumber. 

“You can break his control of you, you just need to think a little,” John said, getting low so that if his opponent tried another run at him, he wouldn’t be able to knock him over. 

The vampire shook his head, as though pushing out John’s words. John was certain that Harker hadn’t made daywalkers, but whatever vampires he had managed to create were perfectly controllable. It felt unnatural - normal vampires were supposed to have a degree of uninhibited, uncontrollable freedom to them, even when it came to their master’s orders. These ones weren’t particularly talkative, only able to obey. 

Sherlock, surrounded by a crowd now as well, aimed his gun and fired at the vampires, alternately gesturing with a stake to keep them at bay. He was assisted by Mycroft, who had now put some distance between himself and Harker, keeping one stake trained on Moriarty and another on the vampires in front of Sherlock.

“Do you have a plan?” Sherlock asked John over his shoulder, firing off a shot that took off a vampire’s shoulder, bringing it to its knees but not destroying it entirely. 

“Not quite,” John replied tersely. “Not one that ends without us killing some of these newborns.”

John was quickly beginning to realize that without Mycroft’s help, it was getting harder and harder to stay ahead of the attacking horde. As though on cue, two more young vampires reached John, and though he was quick in wrapping the hand of one of them in silver chain, he was unable to stop the other from capturing his own arm. One-handed, he attempted to kick at the vampire in front of him, but was slowly brought to the ground as the crowd surrounded him, his only vision in the dim room a sea of shining white fangs. To John’s horror, he saw Harker, sleeves now rolled up, stalking through the crowd of his creations directly towards him. Distantly, he heard an exclamation of pain from Sherlock, and soon saw the other man pinned down a few meters away. 

Although John had kept him out of the bulk of the action, Lestrade had still attracted the attention of some outliers who couldn’t resist the scent of fresh blood. Eyes too puffy to see, and arms too injured to move, he wasn’t quite sure how he was going to fight back. He managed to stand and start backing towards the entrance of the vault. Just as the vampire ahead of him bared its fangs, a projectile Lestrade could later only describe as a Molotov cocktail whizzed past his head and struck the vampire at center mass. An ear-piercing screech emitted from the creature as a hole burned deeply into its chest. As quickly as he was hit, the vampire deteriorated into a burst of ash and dark blood onto the floor of the cavern.

John turned around rapidly in the direction the explosive had come from, and saw a group of ten men and women rushing into the vaults, geared up and pointing their weapons at the vampires in front of them. A man in the back of the line yelled “fire,” and immediately a dozen bullets, arrows, bolts, and nets of varying size flew across the vault, echoing in the small space. 

The vampires immediately looked up, and the slight release of their hands allowed John to pull the dagger from his back pocket again and slash an opening in front of him. He turned and grinned. 

“Good timing, Richter,” he said to Gabriel, taking the pistol the other man offered. The pair turned to the vampires around Sherlock and helped get the detective some space. He gave Sherlock back the gun he had taken earlier. 

Almost simultaneously, John and his old friend sensed something, turned in the opposite direction, and shot at two vampires who were slowly coming up behind them. John aimed for a non-integral part of the body; Gabriel aimed for the head. 

Gabriel glanced at John, eyebrow raised. “You’re not shooting to kill tonight?” 

John shrugged. “Not when avoidable. That going to be a problem?”

Gabriel tilted his head towards John. “I’ll follow your lead.” 

Evidently the conversation was being watched, because the rest of Gabriel’s team’s aim immediately shifted to legs and shoulders, rather than chests. 

Sherlock stepped nimbly around the vampire Gabriel had just taken down. 

“Is this one of the friends who wasn’t going to arrive until tomorrow?” Sherlock asked, brushing some of the dirt off his lapel. 

“Thought the phones might be tapped,” Gabriel said with a shrug. “Better late than never. Lieutenant Gabe Richter. Nice to meet you.”

“Sherlock Holmes,” the man answered.

Gabriel grinned and extended a hand. “I’ve read about you in the paper.” 

“People do talk,” Sherlock replied, shaking the outstretched hand.

“You could have at least hinted that you were on the way,” John said, exasperated. 

“In all fairness,” Gabriel said, pulling a length of silver chain from his belt, “You could have at least hinted that you weren’t dead.”

“It wasn’t a particularly well-kept secret,” John argued back. A crash across the room brought the conversation to a halt as John noticed another explosive going off in the direction of a particularly feisty crowd of newborns. 

In the chaos, John noticed Harker slipping out through a narrow archway on the side of the main cavern. 

“Coward,” he muttered, then yelled “Mycroft!” over the crowd. The tall vampire - hands drenched with blood - turned to look at him. “Follow Harker!”

“What about Sherlock?” Mycroft called back, flipping a stake over daintily and making contact with one of the young vampires. He was surprisingly proficient at hunting, if perhaps a bit too keen. 

“I’ll take care of him,” John said, ducking as a vampire swinging a blade passed by him. “Go - you’re the only one who can keep up with him.”

Reluctantly, Mycroft extricated himself from the fight and made his way to the edges of the vault. 

“Going to take care of me?” Sherlock said, smirking, as he sidled over while he reloaded his gun. 

“Oh, shut up,” John said, laughing.

A woman carrying a long oak staff bumped into John, and pushed him down just in time to swing her weapon over him. She struck a young vampire in a policeman’s uniform in the mouth, repeating her action again to knock him to his knees. With a howl, the vampire fell to the floor, distracted by losing one of his fangs.

“Captain,” the woman said, glancing at John, handcuffing the vampire to one of the bars on the wall in one smooth motion.

“Westenra,” John said, nodding in return. “Good to see you.” 

On looking at the crowd, he realized that he recognized nearly everyone in the vault as a close friend. He hadn’t expected so many had left the army; more than that, he hadn’t expected so many would come to his aid. A gloved vampire, tall and lithe, moved quickly among the newborns, tagging them with silver bands when possible in order to distract them. 

“Arturo,” John said, pointing at him as he spoke to Sherlock. “One of the vampires who signed up for the Corps in its earliest days.”

Sherlock pulled John back into reality as he gestured towards the desk in the center of the room. “Moriarty’s got Sebastian up again,” he said, pointing to the vampire who had just fed the tall marksman some of his blood. Enough to wake him up and give him an edge. Moriarty’s smile seemed to indicate that he was having the time of his life, even in spite of the abandonment of his master.

John surveyed the room. By now, a little over half the vampires were either killed or incapacitated. That was good. However, with Sebastian unattended, in the midst of men and women grappling with two times their numbers in vampires, things were not yet in their favour. 

“Sherlock, will you be alright taking down some vampires?” John asked as he picked up a couple of the knives that had been confiscated earlier in the evening. 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him in response. “I’m quite confident that I’ll be fine.”

“I’m sure you will,” John replied, winking, and began to make a path through the melee. The young vampires, who had formerly seemed slow and zombie-like as they got their bearings, were now moving quickly, fighting with hands and fangs, taking down humans whenever they could. Still under Harker’s spell - clearly Mycroft hadn’t been able to stop him quite yet.

John realized that his side hadn’t suffered too many losses, until he saw a bullet pass through the chest of one of his officers - Andrews, he saw with a shock, a man he had shared a dorm room with in his early years in the military. To watch him bleed out here, under a populated city, staggered John. Before he could grasp that one of the men who had willingly volunteered to help him had been killed in the course of action, he saw another bullet land directly in the head of one of the base’s head doctors. She was a seasoned fighter and, John recalled, a mother of two. 

John traced the path of the bullet back to the corner of the room, and saw Sebastian - now standing alone - calmly setting up another shot in his rifle. Arturo was faster than John, and was able to pull down another lieutenant who hadn’t noticed Sebastian aiming at him. When his shot missed, Sebastian frowned and began to adjust his aim. John, seeing this opportunity, darted between fighting groups and tackled him, rolling them both almost into the desk between the graves. 

“Harker’s left you behind,” John said, full of rage and unexpressed pain. With the benefit of being above Sebastian, he landed a punch squarely in the other man’s jaw. “It’s over.”

“Not yet,” Sebastian replied, trying to get leverage as John hit him yet again. “You think this is the only plan we had? The only graveyard?” Sebastian was finally able to free one of his arms, and punched John in the side, pushing himself up and landing a kick in John’s ribs. 

Powered by the blood he had so recently drank, John bared his fangs and stood, preparing to lunge at Sebastian again, when a young vampire pulled him backwards into the fray. By the time he was able to get out of the tumble of humans and vampires, he saw Westenra was engaged in combat with Moran. John hissed, and began to stalk across the vault once more, when he was stopped.

One of the most underrated benefits of vampire blood was not its ability to heal wounds or its usefulness as an aphrodisiac, but its ability to slow the world down. John saw Moriarty’s stake heading for his heart, watched the candlelight illuminate it with a yellow glow, and knew he didn’t have time to stop it. This time, he didn’t expect he was going to survive; unlike Sebastian, Moriarty was aiming to kill. 

The first time John thought he was going to die, when he was shot, his life didn’t pass before his eyes. He thought of his mum. Nothing important, no great moments, just his mum. The way she would kiss him goodnight before she left in the evening, and how the smell of her perfume would linger in the room for a few minutes afterwards, like she was there when she wasn't. The lunches she would make him for school when he was a kid. The summer she took him fishing with jelly worms, because he couldn't bear to hurt any real ones. That was the summer she told him he should become a doctor. She said he was happiest when he was helping people, and the Van Helsings _were_ known for producing good doctors.

This time John thought of Sherlock. He thought of the way Sherlock looked at him over his microscope. He thought of his laugh and his smile, the smile no one else saw – the one Sherlock got when he figured something important out and he wasn't sure how to tell him. John thought of Sherlock’s hands, the curve of his lips, the way he yawned. And he thought, more than anything, how much he’d miss him. John thought of the way people would tell Sherlock how much John loved him, and how Sherlock would never really believe it. He imagined Sherlock retreating, living in his mind palace, and returning to the man he was before they met: cold, occasionally cruel, and confident that he, if nothing else, was absolutely unloved.

But that wasn’t what happened.

What John saw in his peripheral vision, before he could even form a scream, was Sherlock pushing him aside. He felt the stake vibrate through Sherlock’s body and slow his heart long before he saw the blood pooling around a hole in his chest.

“No!” he screamed, leaping forward to grab the detective, setting him down on the ground softly.

“I told you I’d kill you one day,” Jim said to Sherlock, smiling happily, shaking his head as though this were the most obvious conclusion. 

With a scream between a howl and a moan, John was on his feet, pulling the still-bloody stake from Moriarty’s hands before the vampire could react, then plunging it deep in his chest. Moriarty fell, human once again, the darkness in his eyes fading to nothingness.

Without another thought towards him, John immediately fell back to the floor, bit his wrist, and held it up to Sherlock’s mouth. The healing properties of John’s own blood had always been suspect, but John didn’t have time to experiment and make sure it was optimal. Even as he tilted Sherlock’s head back and guided the blood down his friend’s throat, he knew that it likely wouldn’t fix a mortal wound. He had never had to push its limits.

“Come on, come on, drink,” John murmured, feeling only the slightest response from Sherlock. He was unsure how much of his blood was making it down.

For a moment, it felt as though John and Sherlock were alone in the vault, the chaos around them a blur. With his last vestige of strength, Sherlock pushed John’s hand away and gazed at him quietly, thoughtfully. Through a voice choked by blood, Sherlock rested a hand on John’s neck, and murmured, “it’s fine.” 

“It’s not fine,” John said, voice choked. Softly, so gently John barely noticed, he felt Sherlock’s hand tenderly graze the back of his neck. Then, the hand fell, and Sherlock’s eyes, still locked on John’s, lost their light. His face relaxed, and John ran a hand along the consulting detective’s jaw. “Sherlock?” 

Still on the ground, John looked up. Dazed by shock, John could see the battle more clearly and more dispassionately than ever before. He could see his remaining soldiers - minus the two killed by Sebastian, and one who had been taken down by several newborns - finally overpowering their opponents. Westenra was unconscious, but breathing, clearly knocked over by Sebastian, who himself was now engaged in hand-to-hand combat with Arturo. Perhaps he hadn’t noticed Moriarty dying.

Composed, John stood. He had lived this once before. Still stuck in slow motion, he felt himself reach down and pick up the stake he had killed Moriarty with, and slip it into his belt. Then, he walked across the vault, calmly heaving angry vampires out of his way. By the time he reached Sebastian and Arturo, most of the soldiers present realized what was happening and gave him a wide berth. With a quick glance behind him, Arturo stepped away and let John take his place. 

A malicious smile tugged at Sebastian’s cheek, eager to continue their fight, but John was no longer in a smiling mood. Or a conversant one, for that matter. Immediately landing a punch on Sebastian’s chest, he fought viciously, moving forward aggressively. Without Moriarty’s blood, the battle would have been lost for Sebastian immediately. As it was, he held out for five minutes, the battle around them slowly coming to a close, until John was finally able to land a well-angled kick towards Sebastian’s shin, breaking the bone and causing the other man to fall on to his back. John fell with him, and with one motion, held Sebastian down by the neck. 

The stake hovered a breath away from Sebastian’s rapidly beating heart.

For a moment, John thought he saw Mary - human, as he usually remembered her, and smiling - standing in the corner of the room. She smiled softly at him, neither condemning him or encouraging his actions either way. Vision clouded by tears, John looked down at Sebastian, whose teeth were bared in the characteristic expression of any trapped animal. For a moment, he saw Sebastian as he was when they first met. Young men, fast friends. John’s constant companion before he ever met Sherlock. He remembered every battle they fought and won, and he remembered the moment Sebastian betrayed him. 

In the end, John opted to stand, stake still in hand. The battle had gone silent, the soldiers solemnly watching their captain, and the newborn vampires moaning under chains of silver.

“Greg?” John called, eyes never leaving his target.

“Yeah?” the DI replied, out of breath, as he rose from behind a few decaying bodies. 

The remaining fighters began hauling up what was left of the still-living, though severely injured, vampires. Assuming the rest of the military would arrive over the coming days, they would be able to relocate the newborns until Harker could be found and destroyed. He had enough faith in his soldiers that they would find a safe place to keep them in the meantime. Lines of former officers, his friends, filed out of the room, greeting John as they went - some hadn’t even managed to say hello over the course of the battle, merely getting on with their work as directed. John nodded at each of them in turn, aware of their sacrifice. He didn’t want to imagine the mess all of these bodies would cause the Council.

“You can call in your police contacts anytime,” John said, tonelessly, glancing towards Lestrade, who seemed in better spirits now that the fighting was over. “I think you’ll find Sebastian Moran’s records are sealed, but a warrant for his arrest is still pending. My people will contact you regarding handing him over.” He met Lestrade’s eyes, and the other man nodded. 

“We’ll help him out,” Gabriel said, bruised and bloodied, but still living, gesturing at himself and Arturo. Together, they lifted Sebastian by either arm and followed Greg out the door. Gabriel paused before exiting entirely.

“Are you sure, John?” he asked. “No one would blame you if you killed him.” Sebastian didn’t bother looking up, as though nothing registered for him beyond his failure.

“No,” John answered, softly but firmly. “I’ve had enough death for one day.”

As he gazed at Sherlock’s body on the ground, he considered the last item on his to-do list. 

“Gabe?” he called, and the man turned back around once more. “Make sure I’m left alone until tomorrow evening.”

Gabriel considered the meaning of John’s words, then nodded once. “I’ll have guards posted immediately, Captain.”

John nodded back curtly, and soon heard the heavy wood door slam close. 

John was not particularly emotional - ‘showing only as much as needed’ was his go-to response to most situations - but at this moment he sobbed with a vigorousness that is known only to those who feel as though they have lost everything. Eventually, he felt empty - tired and aching in both body and soul, adrift in the wake that his grief had left him in. 

Slowly, he lifted a shovel up that had been left beside one of the graves. Harker had used it, he imagined, when he was burying his progeny. John considered that he could use one of the existing graves, but decided against it. Sherlock deserved his own, proper burial. John spent the last of his energy digging a long hole deep in the wet soil, considering Sherlock with every shovelful of dirt he threw to the side of the grave. Eventually, when he had no energy left to spare, John stepped out of the hole and walked to Sherlock’s lifeless body, cradling him once more as he carried him towards the grave, lifting him in carefully.

John filled the ground around Sherlock’s body with soil, and cried as he did so. Not only for the death of his friend, but for all of the things he had never mourned – the loss of Mary, of the trust he had in his closest friends, in every unspoken word. The night had gone by so quickly, and he had never imagined this would be the outcome. To win, to see his friends once more, but to pay such a high price. Finished, John threw aside the shovel, and curled around the mound of dirt. He kept one hand on the soil, directly above where he imagined Sherlock’s heart to be, and tried to block out his memories of the night. 

“One more miracle,” he murmured. 

John didn’t recall sleeping, but felt the remainder of that night, and ten hours of daylight pass quickly all the same. John sensed the setting of the sun outside, and slowly opened his eyes. For a moment, he didn’t remember where he was, or where he lay, until he felt a hand reach up to him from below, and wrap softly around his wrist.


	21. Epilogue

Sherlock found himself discovering new physical pleasures available to him as an immortal with each passing day.

Lying on his bed with John, listening to the sound of London at night, he found himself perfectly at ease. The top floor of the flat had long since been repaired after the explosion, but the pair spent most of their time downstairs anyways. It seemed they wouldn’t be needing the second bedroom after all. 

“Do you imagine he was serious?” Sherlock pondered aloud, tracing the fresh scars across the doctor’s chest.

“Mm?” John asked by means of a soft murmur, still enjoying the last moments of post-coital bliss before facing reality.

“Moriarty,” Sherlock added, clarifying.

“Mmh,” John replied, this expression more certain.

“Dracula. He said they could bring him back. Do you imagine he was serious?” Sherlock was not particularly frightened by the thought of hunting another vampire, but as he traced the back of his sharp, smooth teeth, he did admit to himself that he had a certain professional interest in the first of his kind.

John sighed, and Sherlock wasn’t sure if he was going to reply at all when he finally spoke. “It’s more likely Moriarty was trying to get in a dig. Emotion trips you up when you’re trying to work, Sherlock – Dracula does the same to me. A great distraction.”

Sherlock recalled the last time he had called emotion – what was it? – grit on the lens. That conversation with John seemed a lifetime away. It had occurred to him recently that if he wanted to be the cold, calculating machine he had so hoped to become a short while earlier, he now had enough control over his emotions that he could make that wish a reality. However, opened up to the possibility that he had an eternity to live, explore, and love, he wanted nothing more than to experience everything the world had to offer. If Sherlock then could see Sherlock now, one leg between his flatmate’s thighs, he imagined ‘emotion’ would be the least of his concerns. Interrupting this line of thought, John spoke again.

“It’s not like Harker had the real Book of the Undead. Who the hell knows, though. Maybe Dracula had a way back, and Abraham Van Helsing didn’t want to admit it.” John finally opened his eyes and smiled at Sherlock. “In the end, it doesn’t matter - devils or no devils, or all the devils at once. Seems a fine way to approach the future.”

Sherlock smiled back. “We appear to have come full circle.”

John kissed him, then slowly pulled himself away. “By the way.”. Sherlock rolled his eyes and carefully nipped at the doctor’s neck. 

“What?” Sherlock asked.

“Greg is having Anderson come by with a case for you. Apparently he’s annoyed you’re insisting on only meeting him after dark. Thinks it’s just another one of your quirks.” John put a hand behind his head and leaned back, amused. 

Sherlock pondered this. “As exciting as it would be to irritate Anderson, Mycroft was planning to call us with an update tonight. I’m sure you don’t want to miss it.” 

“No, definitely not,” John said, throwing a hand over Sherlock’s hip, and resting his forehead against the other man’s. 

“I do need to take a case soon, though,” Sherlock agreed, putting his own arm overtop John’s to pull him closer. “The blog needs an update.”

John chuckled. 

Sherlock leaned down to kiss John softly. John laughed and pulled away from Sherlock, running the pad of his thumb across his flatmate’s lower lip. 

“This kissing thing with both of our fangs out is going to be difficult. Makes it awkward to get close.”

“We’ll need to practice, then,” Sherlock answered, this time tilting his head slightly. 

John wasn’t worried - he felt certain they had a few centuries to figure things out.


End file.
